


though the winter have begun

by highgardensansa



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Bisexual Female Character, Character Study, Explicitly Bi Margaery, F/F, F/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, more of a book spin i suppose, so i've tried a little bit of a different spin, so make of that what you will, this entire fic has been written to hozier fleetwood mac and nina simone
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2019-10-07 13:19:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 46,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17366603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/highgardensansa/pseuds/highgardensansa
Summary: The Tyrells look north instead of west for a marriage alliance after Renly's death, and Margaery Tyrell becomes Queen in the North. Neither of them know what to make of the other - at first.---If his parents’ marriage was a rock, his own was shaping up to be an avalanche.





	1. Robb I

**Author's Note:**

> hey guys i'm back with more margaery shenanigans!! i've been writing this fic for ~6 months and it's driven me absolutely mad, so i hope you enjoy it! 
> 
> there's a few changes i've made to the canon, many of which are very tiny and specific, but the main one is this: instead of Tywin Lannister going to King's Landing he heads for Casterly Rock. This is a super specific plotline in the books and isn't mentioned in the show (i think), but basically here Edmure lets Tywin cross the Trident as he was supposed to do. Second, Jon left for the Wall about a year before Robert came to Winterfell. Third, Ned is still alive, but he's a prisoner in King's Landing along with Sansa.
> 
> i spent a LOT of time trying to work on the characterization, and i really tried to portray robb as a sixteen year old boy who was thrust into an impossible position, and i'm hoping that it works. thank you! i'll continue to update the tags with each chapter. if you like please consider leaving a kudos or a comment!

He had never felt more guilty in his life.

“You can’t be serious,” he said, struggling to act somewhat kingly as his morals crashed down around him.

“This is your mother’s writing,” Dacey told him. Thank the gods it was only Dacey here. It wouldn’t do to have anyone see him like this. The shame burned.

“I sent her south to make an alliance with Renly, not with his wife!” The very thought seemed impossible, improbable at best. How could it have happened? He began pacing his room while she stood firm, the letter still in her hand. The bed was still mussed where he’d lain with her. _Fool! A fool for a king! A fool for a man!_ The guilt weighed heavy. He stopped pacing, knowing that his problems wouldn’t disappear; he took a shuddering breath and turned back to Dacey.

“Read me the letter again.”

Dacey complied quickly after seeing the state he was in. “‘ _Robb, Renly is dead. He was killed by a shadow with the face of Stannis Baratheon. Myself, Brienne of Tarth, Loras Tyrell and Margaery Tyrell were in the room when it happened. Renly’s Stormlands bannermen flocked to Stannis, and I have been with the Tyrell host. Through much deliberation Lady Olenna and myself have arranged marriage between you and Lady Margaery. I realize you are bound to a Frey girl, but we need the strength of Highgarden if we are to ever get the girls and your father back. We are headed north to Riverrun. I’ll see you there, and stay safe. Catelyn.'_ ” Dacey paused for a moment. “What are you going to do?”

Robb began pacing again, a hand on his injured shoulder. “I don’t know. I don’t know. Gods, Dacey, I have to marry her, don’t I?”

“Do you mean the Westerling girl or Margaery?” She asked.  

“I don’t even know,” he said. “I’ve dishonored her, I have to marry her, don’t I?”

“It _is_ what honor demands,” she said, “but you’ll never win this war without Highgarden.”

Robb laughed bitterly. “How am I supposed to choose between honor and victory?”

Dacey shrugged. “I can’t tell you that. You have to answer that question yourself, my friend.”

Over these past months with the loss of his sisters and leaving his brothers behind in Winterfell there’d been a serious sense of emptiness. Especially with his father’s absence, he’d been left with naught but his mother. Dacey had filled the empty hole of sibling, acting as an older sister.

Robb chewed on his lip. “I have to speak with Jeyne.” It was the first time he’d said her name that hadn’t been in a muttered gasp or whispered kiss.

Jeyne Westerling was sitting in her family’s parlor, dressed in a light gray that didn’t clash well with her curly brown hair and the tan undertones of her skin. Even still, she looked sweet. How could she not, with those wide brown eyes and pretty plump lips.

She stood when he walked in. “Your Grace,” she curtseyed more deeply than she needed to. She certainly wasn’t making this easier. “How has your morning been?”

“I don’t have time for pleasantries,” he said. Her demeanor changed, she seemed to almost sink in on herself and take a defensive position. “I’ve received some news.”

“Good news, I hope?” She asked in a surprisingly sweet voice. Robb looked away.

“It’s hard for me to say this but . . . what happened last night, it was a mistake. A foolish mistake on my part.”

“Ah,” she said, her eyes flitting down in disappointment. “I understand.”

“I’m sorry. There are decisions I have to make for the good of my people and -”

“And marrying me to fix your dishonor is not one of them.” She supplied, her sweet voice stating it as a fact, but the words still stung. “To tell you the truth, I didn’t think you would. I knew what I was doing when I tended to your wound, and it took both of us to do what we did.”

“It doesn’t make it right,” he said. He wanted her to yell, to scream, to fight, but she simply sat there, her posture straight and her voice sweet.

“No, it doesn’t,” she agreed, “But it still happened.”

He burned with shame. “It isn’t so simple, though. What I did to you was wrong and . . . and what if I got you with child?”

Jeyne shook her head. “I highly doubt it.”

Robb ran a hand through his hair. _Gods, I can’t have a bastard! What would Jon think?_ But he couldn’t marry her either.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” she said. “I don’t regret it, if that’s what you ask. I know you can’t marry me, I’m an awful match, and you’re fighting a war. I’m sure you’ve already someone you’re beholden to, and that is not me.”

“Jeyne,” he begged, but didn’t know what for. He couldn’t simply use her and throw her away.

“I’ll treasure the memory of our night together, but I ask that you leave me, please.” It was in that moment he realized that this was as hard for her as it was for him.

“I won’t forget,” he said. She only looked at him, a mix of pain and disappointment, but not regret. That was the last he saw of Jeyne Westerling. As he turned he thought of how differently she had looked just hours before, bright and happy and filled, wrapped up in his arms. He hadn’t been close with a woman since before his father went south, and he’d forgotten how that sort of companionship felt. He’d forgotten what it was to be, even if for a moment, close to a person; to have someone hold him, comfort him, let him forget about himself for a moment and become something more. Last night he wasn’t a King, it wasn’t political, he was just a man lying with a woman. With dawn had come the loss of that sweet simplicity.

Jeyne Westerling could have been his queen, if only he’d said the word. He could be lying with her right now, kissing those sweet lips, feeling her body move beneath his, hearing her laugh. But he knew that Jeyne Westerling would bring no more than fifty swords. Margaery Tyrell would bring fifty thousand.

As he got on his horse to leave the Crag he thought of the Tully words. _Family, Duty, Honor_. It’d be dutiful and honorable to marry her, but he had his family to think of. His father and sisters were prisoners of the Lannisters. His not yet nine-year-old brother was acting Lord of Winterfell, and his four-year-old brother was without parents. His mother was slowly cracking under the stress and was relying more and more on him not just to keep her sane, but the entire army. He had to take care of his family before duty and honor. His mother and father would agree, yes? Family was the most important.

“Are you ready to leave, Your Grace?” Dacey prompted casually. He’d been thinking too long.

Robb nodded and gave the cue to depart. He didn’t look back.

 

* * *

 

He was disoriented the entire journey back to Riverrun. Every time he closed his eyes he saw Jeyne looking at him with that awful look of pain and disappointment. It only worsened the closer they got to Riverrun, and so did his thoughts of Margaery. He wondered about her constantly; the two preyed on his mind, this woman whom he had only spent one night with who he knew every detail of versus the woman who he was to spend the rest of his life with and knew nothing of. What did she look like? Was she pretty, was she kind? He’d heard nothing of her but her name. In his mind there was her, all a mystery, and right next to her there was Jeyne. As the days passed he began to hate how she had such a hold on him, how she plagued his every waking moment, and many of his sleeping ones. She was nothing to him, nothing but a night’s slip, a moment’s weakness, and yet . . .

The anger stopped whenever he realized he might’ve gotten her with child. That’s when the regret flew back in, and it took everything he had to not ride back to the Crag and say his vows. By that point, however, they were some three days’ ride from Riverrun, and the invisible pull of his mother and his betrothed was too powerful. He spent one more night agonizing, cursing himself, his foolishness, his dishonor before decidedly putting it behind him. He was a King, he was the father of his people. He couldn’t spend his life regretting a single night, not when there was a war to fight.

Dacey had been worried about him, constantly hovering near him and asking him how he was. He appreciated her concern, to a point, but he couldn’t confide in her. To begin with, she wouldn’t understand. Dacey was very logically-minded, though she could be very sympathetic. Even if he told her she’d first tell him he has no business worrying about this, that there were so many other troublesome things happening in the world. Dacey was always very in the moment, which was good in a friend, but not so good for his state of mind. Besides, it wouldn’t do. She was his friend, but she was also his subject. He was the father of his people; a father did not tell his children what plagued him.

He spent long hours thinking of his father and sisters, trapped by the Lannisters. He wondered everyday if they were being treated well, if they were being beaten, if they’d thrown Sansa and Arya in a cell along with his father. Not to mention that Tywin Lannister was in the Riverlands. Edmure had let him cross, just as he’d told him to. The further Tywin was from King’s Landing, the better. Robb would ensure he would not make it to Casterly Rock. Edmure’s army was chasing him, picking at him, and Robb would come with his army and finish it. It was improbable at best before, but now with the Tyrells it was certainly a possibility.

Riverrun came upon them in seemingly no time at all. He’d always liked the stout castle with its fresh white walls and blue-roofed towers. He’d been born here, and even though it was nothing compared to Winterfell, he still felt a pleasant familiarity about the castle. It was a sort of home away from home. He rode into the courtyard where his mother and uncle Blackfish were waiting, as he’d requested. He didn’t want to meet his betrothed smelling of blood, sweat and horse.

His mother greeted him warmly, doing all but taking him into her arms and kissing him.

“You look well, Mother,” he said as Grey Wind came up and licked his hand. He’d left him to look after his mother in his absence.

“I heard you were injured,” she said, frowning, her eyes searching him for any sign of a wound.

“An arrow touched me,” he said, shrugging it away. “How was your journey?”

“It was fair. It’s still only autumn, so the weather held.”

“And what of her?” He asked. His mother knew.

“She’s very beautiful,” she said, having obviously spent some time studying the girl. “She seems very shy and quiet, but that’s to be expected from what happened with Renly.”

His forehead creased. He’d near forgotten he was marrying a widow.

The Blackfish saw this, put his hand on his shoulder and said, “Don’t let your mother’s words go to your head. Margaery Tyrell is beautiful, charming and fertile.”

“Fertile? Oh, yes.” He’d only thought about her and the army she brought, not the actual marriage itself - never mind children. He wasn’t in dire need of heirs yet, since Bran and Rickon were safe in Winterfell, but the thought was still startling. “I’m looking forward to meeting her.”

“There’ll be a dinner tonight with our two families,” she informed. “The wedding will take place in two days, since you arrived a bit early.”

He nodded. “I should go get washed up.” He kissed his mother on the cheek and made his way back to his chambers. He’d forgotten how nice it was to have clean clothes and to wash himself with clean water, instead of dirty rivers and streams. Instead of waking him, though, the cleanliness just reminded him how tired he was, and how he wanted nothing to do except crawl into his bed. He sat, his head against the wall, eyes closed, trying to work up the strength to look through the papers on his desk. He was so close to finishing this, just a few more moves and a bit of luck and he’d be back in Winterfell with his family, just how it was supposed to be. He’d left not even a year ago and yet it seemed like a lifetime since he’d been safe in those old stone walls. He wanted a drink, to drown his sorrows in a good northern ale, but it’d probably be best to be sober when he met his betrothed.

He was busy drowning himself in melancholy instead when he heard a knock at the door. He’d left _clear_ instructions to not be disturbed before dinner and judging by the amount of light pouring in from the window it was nowhere near that time. He considered snapping at the person, but it could be someone he shouldn’t snap at. He’d rather not deal with those repercussions.

“Yes?” He instead answered.

The person opened the door without answering his question, and revealed herself to be just a girl - a very beautiful girl if he was being honest with himself. The first thing he noticed was her eyes, honey brown and deep set, immediately pulling him to her. Jeyne’s had also been brown and had held a particular softness to them; the woman before him seemed soft, with the gentle curves of her face and lightly curled locks of hair, but there was a definite edge in her gaze. Her hair was a light brown, near the shade of her eyes and curled around her slender figure gracefully, falling all the way down to her waist. Most women he knew wore their hair in a braid, but not she; her hair fell down her back without hindrance, with only two small braids for decoration. She was very comely; she had a soft plumpness to her that most Northern women lost in the cold. If anything was obvious about this woman, it was that she was not of the North. No Northern woman would ever wear a dress that went clear down to her navel, no matter what the weather was. It was only then he realized that this must be her, his betrothed. He stood quickly.

“Your Grace, I am Margaery Tyrell,” she curtseyed. “It’s my understanding that we are to be wed.”

She’d caught Robb off-guard and she knew it. He straightened his doublet, praying to all the gods that he didn’t look as unkempt as he thought he did.

He nodded his head. “My lady,” he paused to collect himself. “I didn’t expect to meet you until dinner tonight.”

Her cheeks flushed innocently as she looked down, then looking back up at him with a shy smile. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but I thought it’d be much more pleasant if we met alone, just the two of us.” He didn’t like the way she phrased that. Actually, Robb hadn’t especially liked a single word that had fallen from her pretty lips.

“I hate to spoil our meeting, my lady, but I’d rather not be disturbed until dinner.” He said, standing his ground.

He saw her mentally backtrack. “Forgive me, Your Grace,” she said, and it seemed to be almost sincere. “I understand that as a King you are awfully busy.” There was something in her voice that peeved him even more. “And I suppose we will be spending the rest of our lives together so there’s no especial _need_ to become acquainted now.” She smiled that same smile and leaned against the desk. From the way she sat the hem of her dress rode up a little, exposing a quick flash of her calves. He glanced quickly and looked away, but he knew she’d seen him look.

“No,” he said, though not as coldly as he intended, “there isn’t.”

“Perhaps there’s no need, but there may be a want, hmm?” The corner of her mouth turned up into a sly smile. _Mother called her shy_ . _If only she could see her now_.

“I’m sorry, my lady, is there something you want from me?” He was getting tired of this game she was playing.

She seemed startled but she didn’t blush like she had been. She squared her shoulders and stared him straight in the eye. “In truth, Your Grace, I want to get to know the man who is to be my husband, nothing more.”

“You didn’t come here to get to know my mind,” he accused. Her advances had been more than clear.

Her nose twitched. “I came here to see what sort of man you are.” She stood straight, crossing her arms.

“And what sort is that, have you discovered?”

“I haven’t decided.”

“You said yourself we’ll be spending the rest of our lives together. You have time to decide.”

He could see her getting angry. “As a woman, it’d be nice to be acquainted with the man I’m to marry before I marry him. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Not especially, no. We have our lives for that.”

“That’s what I thought with my first husband. I scarce met him before we were wed, and then he was dead before he could put a child in me.”

“I suppose it’s a good thing you weren’t especially acquainted then.” Robb said, and regretted the words as soon as he’d said them.

Her mouth dropped open in shock. “I fear I already know too much of you,” she said harshly. The sweetness in her face had been replaced with sudden hate, her eyes piercing him like arrows. “I’d thank you if you can keep your comments to yourself at dinner, I’d rather not be embarrassed in front of my family.”

She went to the door, her hand on the handle when Robb cried, “Wait!”

She turned to look at him, fire in her eyes. His shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry, my lady. That was awful of me to say.”

An eyebrow raised for just a moment. “It was.”

“Aren’t you going to accept my apology?” That wasn’t the usual answer to any apology he’d ever known. “I mean, don’t I deserve an apology too?”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “ _You_? Why on earth do you deserve an apology from _me_?”

“You _did_ come in here and near force yourself on me.”

“Now I _forced_ myself on you? Do you have any idea how ridiculous that sounds?”

He blinked. It was a bit ridiculous. “Perhaps you didn’t force yourself on me,” he backtracked, “but you cannot tell me you didn’t have certain intentions with coming in here.”

“I _told_ you, I wanted to see what kind of man you are.”

“And have you discovered that yet?”

“I don’t think you’d like my answer.”

He wondered for a moment if his father had ever been in this situation with his mother. He thought not, and that made it all the more confusing. He took a breath. “I’d hear your answer, if you’d tell it.”

The same brow raised again, just for a heartbeat. “Would you?”

He fought the urge to say, ‘I said I would’, and instead gestured to the desk chair. She took her hand from the handle slowly and sat.

“Very well,” she said as she straightened her skirts. “I’ve known you are a King, and a Northerner, as those two facts are quite obvious. I know that you are fighting this war to free your father and sisters, which is a much more noble cause than many of the other kings in this war. I know that you’ve won every battle you’ve fought. With those pieces of knowledge I came in here expecting to meet a smart, accomplished and somewhat kind man. Instead I’ve found an arrogant, foolish boy, believing that he must be the smartest individual in the room, and not expecting his future wife to be anything like me.”

It was a true and harsh assessment, but he had to admit, he was a bit amused. Here she was, calling him a boy yet she was but a girl herself. A widow, but still a girl. “May I speak in my defense?”

She waved a hand. “If you must.”

He raised his own eyebrow at that, but let her have her fun. “In my defense, my lady, I have been on the road for more than a fortnight, and was looking for a bit of peace and quiet in the comforts of a castle. I didn’t expect you.”

“That’s a fair defense,” she submitted. “I’ve had weeks to prepare for you, but I suppose you haven’t the same.”

“Not quite, my lady.” The corner of his mouth turned up ever slightly. “I am fighting a war, after all. It takes up most of my time.”

“What about after the war?” She asked, her head cocked.

He hadn’t thought of what would happen _after_ the war. That would involve him surviving, the chances of which seemed to grow rather slim at times. “I have to win the war first.”

She blinked, thinking. “You have the men of the Reach now, with our marriage. The Lannisters have no allies, unless Stannis suddenly stops planning his attack and changes sides or Balon Greyjoy pledges his banners, neither of which are very likely. So, all you have to defeat is the Lannisters, whose army is scattered or being chased by your uncle. So, what of winning?”

He didn’t expect her to know so much. He thought ladies kept their minds occupied with embroidery and finding husbands, not politics. Maybe Sansa was just a bad example. “Nothing in war is certain, my lady. Tywin may not have the numbers but he has the years, and the Queen has hostages.” He shook his head. Here he was, discussing war politics with her, of all people! “What is it to you?”

“What is it to me? My army is pledged to yours, and thereby my fate is locked to yours. It’s everything to me.”

“Why do you worry of such things? Surely you’ve got something else to occupy your time.” His mother had always been involved in the running of Winterfell, but she hadn’t discussed war politics with him.

She cocked her head. “My first husband was not a strong man, and he died for his frivolity, arrogance and underestimation of his enemy. With what little time we had I did my best to help him, to try and give him ideas, and he always pushed me away. You ask me why I worry - I worry because he is six feet underground, and I’d rather not be twice widowed.”

Robb pressed his lips together. He couldn’t fault her for thinking such, seeing as she’d already gone through a great deal. “You would want to give me advice?”

She looked a bit doubtful. “I would not presume to tell you how to wage war, but you must admit: you’re of the North, and you cannot know how the South works-”

“It can’t be too different from the North,” he interrupted.

She seemed exasperated. “The North and South are as different as the sun and the moon. You need to understand that when you take King’s Landing.”

“If,” he corrected.

Margaery shook her head. “You _will_ take King’s Landing, because if you don’t then all of this has been for naught. The march from Winterfell, every battle, _our marriage_ , it’ll all be worthless.”

Despite his efforts, Robb was warming up to this woman before him. She was smart, that was obvious, and focused as well. Yes, she was stubborn and a bit big-headed but she was passionate. He’d been so lost in his own head that he’d forgotten the bigger picture, what the war meant, what he was trying his damnedest to do.

“Aye,” he said, his respect growing. “I’ll accept your help.”

“I only ask to be included. As husband and wife we can surely agree to that.” She gave him a true look, an intelligent look. _This is going to be a very interesting marriage_. He nodded.

“I’ll see you at dinner then, Your Grace,” she stood, curtseying.

“Robb,” he said suddenly, surprising not just himself. “You can call me Robb.”

She smiled shyly. “Margaery.” And she swept out of his chambers as quickly as she’d swept in.


	2. Margaery I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This wasn’t a song, this was a war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please don't expect daily updates, but i got such a good response to the first chapter (a lot better than i imagined, by the way, thank you all so much!!) that i decided to go ahead and post the second chapter. this chapter is why 'character study' is in the tags. and this one was a bitch, since i was trying to go for a different but still realistic portrayal of marg; i know that show!marg is very confident in her sexuality and plays the game like no other, and book!marg we really don't know that much of, except that she's smart and pretty and sexual. i wanted to write margaery in a situation where she isn't in danger, where she isn't forced to play the game 24/7 (of course she's still playing it in riverrun, but the stakes are lower). i hope you all like it, and please leave a kudos or a comment if you do!

Margaery had never been confused with men before, not once in her life. Men were easy; their brains were all in their balls. Yes, some men were better, but most men she’d encountered, smart men, pretty men, rich men, they all succumbed to their whims in her bed. It’s why she’d always preferred women. But Robb Stark . . . all her instincts seemed to be wrong. She’d been told he was a northern barbarian, that he was half-wolf himself. He was a military man, a king, that told her that it would be easy to put herself in his bed and mind, but when she’d come in he’d looked so . . . defeated. It was the very last thing she’d expected to see. It was no wonder that her advances didn’t work; he’d seen right through her anyway. Then he’d insulted her and oh, her insides burned like an inferno, and it’d taken everything she had to not scream at him for how awful he was being. _Gods, a fool! A stupid fool!_ And then he’d expected _her_ to apologize to _him_? It’d taken every ounce of her strength to not throttle him then and there. She couldn’t _stand_ stupid men. Sex with stupid men was fine, could even be good, but marrying one? Gods, she’d rather step on hot coals. But then . . . but then he’d completely flipped on her. In one moment he was a boy, a stupid blockheaded _boy_ , and then he’d honestly asked her what she thought of him. He was still a fool, but not many fools surprised her like that. Somehow they’d gotten to the topic of the war, and when she spoke he’d _listened_. Renly had never wanted to hear a word out of her ‘pretty little mouth’. In some ways she was pleased he was dead, though the thought was evil. She’d seen him die, watched him breathe his last, and while she hadn’t taken pleasure in it she hadn’t mourned him either. Perhaps that made her an unfeeling woman, but she didn’t care too much. It was nothing her grandmother would fault her for.

Her heart was pounding out of her chest when she left his chambers, and the entire walk back to her own. Her skin tingled with a thrill that she’d not quite felt before. Robb Stark, _Robb Stark_ , of all men! It boggled the mind. She’d been with dozens of men and women from across the realm, of all shapes and sizes and personalities, but she’d always been able to figure them out rather quickly. But him . . . she hadn’t expected him. She’d expected a King, yes, ignorant and arrogant and vain, but she didn’t expect to walk in and see an utterly defeated man. He stood, and he lifted the weight of the world with him. He didn’t expect him to listen to her, she didn’t expect that glimmer of respect in his eye when they parted. She didn’t expect a man.

Worst of all, she didn’t expect to be stricken with the desire to comfort him.

He refused to leave her mind all that afternoon, despite her best efforts. The ideal of him and the reality of him battled in her mind, and the slightest glimmer of hope began to grow in her heart. Hope for something different, something new, and all the excitement that came with such.

“Margaery! Seven hells, child, you haven’t been listening to a word I’ve been saying!” Her grandmother snapped.

“I’m sorry, Grandmama.”

Her eyes squinted, scanning her face. “What’s so special about this northern barbarian? Your head’s been in the clouds since.” She raised an eyebrow. “He can’t be _that_ good in bed.”

Margaery wet her lips. “I didn’t sleep with him.”

“What?”

“He didn’t want to.” She told her the entire story, from her entering the room to the argument to him asking her to call him by his name. Her grandmother listened attentively, but she left out the part about him looking defeated. She didn’t feel her grandmother was privy to that information, though she didn’t understand why.

“Hmph.” She could tell she was thinking, obviously as surprised as she was. “I knew Robb Stark would be the better choice. Your father wanted to side with Joffrey, Joffrey! Of all the kings in this war, he just might be the worst. Renly was no good either - as gentle as a feather pillow, but with half the courage. I told your father from the start to side with either the Lannisters or Starks, but he just had to go off and swear allegiance to Renly Baratheon. The man knew less about being king than Robert did, thought he was a king because he’d fought in tourneys!” Olenna became lost in her own spite for a moment. Margaery had learned a long time ago that her grandmother was so harsh because she’d never been listened to. It was one of the reasons she’d hated selling her to Renly. “Robb Stark might be a northerner and a Stark with his head in the snow but it’s far better than siding with those Lannisters.”

“It’s strange, Grandmama. He’s a puzzle, I just can’t quite seem to understand him.”

Olenna ‘hmph-ed’ again. “Once you’re in his bed in two days’ time you won’t _need_ to understand him,” she said tartly.

“That’s the strangest thing.” She felt foolish saying it, like a lovestruck maiden. “I - I _want_ to understand him.”

“What _ever_ for?”

Margaery paused, wetting her lips again. “He - he listened to me. He rejected my advances, but it wasn’t because he didn’t like what he saw . . . he just didn’t want it. He asked me . . .” she trailed off, still in disbelief.

“Asked you what?” She asked impatiently.

“We were arguing, and I told him I came to see what kind of man he was, and that he wouldn’t want to hear what I had to say, but he did. He didn’t deny it, either. Then we got onto the topic of the war and he said he’d accept my advice. It was all so strange! He actually listened to me when I spoke.”

Her grandmother made a satisfied ‘humph’. “He’ll do better than Joffrey would.” Margaery couldn’t agree more.

A maid came then to tell them that dinner was near ready. The dinner itself was rather uneventful. Her father made dull conversation with the Lady Catelyn, who had the grace and dignity to make it seem like she cared. Margaery had come to have a certain deal of respect for her soon-to-be goodmother. She carried so much grief, but she still managed to carry on, to get up in the morning; and she did it all with refined grace and dignity. She was unlike any mother Margaery had known.

Her grandmother kept conversation with the Lady Catelyn or Ser Brynden Tully. He was quite a character, full of wit and charm but she knew from the journey there that he was awfully stubborn and rather blunt. Her grandmother seemed to enjoy it, but she noticed she was watching Robb all the while.

Her brothers made conversation with Robb, though it was mostly Garlan who did the talking. Robb answered his questions politely and with humor. A different Robb was present at dinner than the one she’d known earlier. He seemed bigger, brighter. He made frequent eye contact with his mother and it was quite obvious they relied a great deal on each other. He made time to glance at Margaery throughout all of this, and each time those blue Tully eyes settled on her the most wonderful thrill went through her; she cursed herself each time. She would respond by smiling back politely, as she was supposed to do, and hid her delight behind her spoon. Those moments were few and far between, though, as her brothers kept him occupied. They were only trying to get the measure of this young king, who in two days’ time was to be their brother by law. She didn’t mind the overprotectiveness, not truly. That’s just how brothers were. Loras kept glancing between her and him. _I’ll have to fill him in later._

When the dinner was finished and they parted ways Robb kissed her hand, with all the chivalry of the noblest knight. Her heart skipped a beat; she cursed it.

She retired to her room afterwards. She lay in bed and thought about how in two nights, _two nights_ , that man would be hers. She let her mind wander, fantasizing about how she’d tug those gorgeous red curls of his, being held in his gentle yet strong arms, his lips against hers.

 _Margaery!_ She hit herself. _What kind of fool are you! You’re not some maiden, fantasizing about her perfect knight!_ This wasn’t a song, she reminded herself, this was a war. This was an alliance through marriage, nothing more. She needed to remember that most of all, or she’d doom herself. He’d listened to her, yes, but she couldn’t read too much into it. They’d only been together the one time, after all. Seven hells, she’d made a complete fool of herself! He was a king, not some sad man to make a project of! Gods, why did women always go for the sad men? That little bit of power he’d given her by letting them talk as equals - it was intoxicating. He was sad, yes and burdened, but the way he’d looked at her . . . there was something in his eyes that she couldn’t be fabricating. _No, Margaery!_ Her duty was to marry him, lay with him and give him heirs, and pull the strings necessary to make sure that he lived through this bloody war to do all of those things. She’d dreamed about respect in her marriage but now she was hoping, foolishly, that something else would come into it, beyond respect. _No,_ she resigned. _I wasn’t meant to be loved._

And yet . . . the way he’d looked at her during dinner. Could she dare? She laid in her bed for hours, debating every possibility, trying to convince herself one way or the other. At last, when all explanations had been exhausted, she laughed, loud enough for someone in the next room to hear her. She couldn’t help herself. For the first time in her sixteen years she was confused by a man. By _him_ , of all men.

Men and women had always come so easily to her. From the time she’d first become a woman and even before she’d experimented with both sexes. A girl had taken her maidenhead at twelve, a boy the next year. She remembered how angry her grandmother had been when she learned she’d given up her maidenhead to the youngest son of Rowan and told her never to lay with ‘stupid, rowdy boys’ again. By that point Margaery had no intention to lay with any man ever again, since everything she heard about Rowans turned out to be true. However, that only lasted a year. She spent most of her fourteenth and fifteenth year in the arms of one boy or girl or other, though she did her best to be discreet. That had all stopped when she married Renly. Her grandmother made her swear off boys until she was carrying Renly’s child, but none of that ever came to pass. She knew about Renly when they wed, and she knew the way he looked at her brother, but she didn’t expect for him to never deliver. On their wedding night he came to the chamber already disheveled, courtesy of her brother. He’d excused himself by saying he was much too tired from the feast and, oh, surely there was no hurry? And he’d rolled over and gone right to sleep. In the morning he’d mussed up the sheets but no one had been fooled. Then he’d died, and now she was here. _I hope Robb’s good in bed,_ she thought distractedly. _It’d be a shame to be wed to a man who doesn’t know his own self._

A sudden pang of longing for her ladies struck deep in her heart. The bed stretched empty beside her, lonely and cold. Usually at least one of them slept with her, usually Elinor, but they’d all been left behind in Highgarden. Elinor had been her constant companion since childhood, and had shared her bed in more ways than one. She missed her tongue, and not just for its sharp wit. Elinor would know what to say, she’d know how to comfort her and set her mind right. She wondered what she would think of him; she hadn’t cared for Renly in the slightest, but perhaps she might like Robb. She sighed. In two days’ time someone else would be sharing her bed. Her mind strayed again, to what sort of husband Robb Stark might be. She couldn’t imagine him being the doting type, but neither could she imagine him being indifferent. The unknown stretched before her, a whole lifetime long. She would soon be Margaery Stark, Queen in the North, and leave Margaery Tyrell to the green pastures and golden roses of her youth. A cold wind blew through a cracked window; she buried herself in the covers. She’d never been this far north and even here the cold pricked at her, as if warning her of things to come. She shied away from it at first, missing the warm breezes that softly lifted her curtains back in Highgarden; but then she thought of him, his dark blue eyes and red stubble and strong arms and embraced the wind, letting the cold turn her skin to gooseflesh.


	3. Robb II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps he didn’t want an easy marriage, like his parents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay i'm finally actually getting some real plot moving. i hope you enjoy, and please leave a kudos or a comment if you do!
> 
> also: i've always thought genevieve bujold would be the perfect margaery (anne boleyn actresses really are the best when it comes to marg)

“What do you think of her?” Catelyn asked later that evening in the solar.

Robb had been lost in his own thoughts; thoughts of her, truth be told. “Hmm?”

“Your _bride_ ,” his mother prompted.

“Oh! Yes. She’s, um, she’s very pretty,” he said. Everything but pretty was running through his mind.

“I told you she’s shy. The poor girl hardly said a word at dinner.”

“Yes,” Robb agreed, deciding not to tell his mother about their earlier rendezvous.

His mother continued on. “It’s to be expected though, after Renly. It’s just awful what happened to him.”

“You said he was killed by a shadow, did you not?” Robb asked. He’d forgotten that particular detail when he’d first received his mother’s letter at the Crag, amongst all the other goings-on.

“A shadow with the face of Stannis Baratheon,” she intoned. The room seemed to grow darker, oddly. “It was that red priestess of his, I’m sure of it.”

This news was more than worrisome. Stannis would never side with him, no matter how closely their interests were aligned. All he could hope for was that he was not sending a shadow after him.

He needed a change of subject. “What do you think of the other Tyrells? Her brothers kept rather good conversation with me.”

“I wish they hadn’t,” Catelyn said with a smile. “That way you could’ve saved me from Lord Mace.”

“The Lady Olenna seemed to do that for you,” Robb said with his own smile.

“I’ve never considered myself a dull-witted woman, but she sure makes me think so!” She laughed. “She spins me in circles with her words, and she enjoys it all the while.” She shook her head. “What do you think of the brothers?”

“Garlan could almost be a man of the North, if his name weren’t Tyrell. Talking with him was as easy as talking to any of my bannermen. He didn’t make it obvious that he was trying to figure out my character, unlike the younger brother. His eyes went between me and her the entire time, and all of his questions were rather forward. I’ve heard he is a rather skilled knight, though.”

Catelyn nodded. “He seems very protective of his sister; he barely left her side the entire journey. Garlan, on the other hand, is much more friendly. They call him ‘Garlan the Gallant’ and I can understand why.”

“Mmm,” he agreed, as his thoughts again wandered to her. His mother seemed to sense this.

“You’re worried about marrying her over the Frey girl, aren’t you?” She asked, but that hadn’t been what he was thinking of. In truth he’d almost forgotten about his pact with the Freys.

Robb shook his head. “We’ll appease the Freys one way or another,” he said. Right now, he didn’t care about the Freys.

“They’ve all marched home, after hearing the news.” She informed. “After your wedding we’ll have to propose a match again and see if they’ll accept.”

“I have to march to join Edmure right after the wedding,” he told her. “We can talk of appeasing the Freys when I return.” _If I return_. He might marry Margaery and leave her twice widowed. The thought did not settle well.

“Very well,” his mother said, standing. “It’s getting late, my son. You should try and get some rest.” She pressed a kiss to his forehead.

Try as he might, he could not follow his mother’s advice. He lay awake that night, as he did many nights, but all his thoughts were of her. She was certainly pretty, much more than pretty, but there was something about her that tugged at his mind. He’d been so disoriented since the Crag, but when she’d walked into the room everything had changed. She’d pulled every bit of attention to her. Her voice was sweet and musical, but her words were steel truth. And yet, before he’d forced her out of it she’d played the seductress. He wondered if that was who she was, or if all that was just an act. ‘ _I came here to see what sort of man you are’_ she’d said, lifting her skirts. Was he marrying a loose woman? The shy widow his mother had led him to believe of did not exist, and that was the only bit he was sure of. Margaery Tyrell was not shy, that he knew from her low-cut dresses to those deep honey brown eyes.

What bothered him was, if the Crag hadn’t happened he may have taken her right then and there. He knew that was what she wanted, but why? They would be wed in two days’ time, why would she want to bed him then? It didn’t make sense.

Oh, but then, _then_ he’d gone and opened his dumb mouth. What a foolish thing to say! She was peeving him, but then he’d gone and made it so much worse. Oh, and the way she’d looked at him! No woman had ever looked at him with such disgust, such _contempt_. He’d opened his mouth and destroyed his marriage, and it hadn’t even begun yet. Then, of course, he’d thought he deserved an apology. What a fool he was, what a dominating fool! It was only right that she’d eviscerated him, and in only five sentences. He’d more than deserved it.

He didn’t expect her to know anything of war, either. He hadn’t given much thought to how much the Reachmen would change the outcome of the war, only knowing that they would. He didn’t count on how much any of that would mean to her. He hadn’t counted on her, in truth. She’d surprised him, in every single way imaginable. She seemed so soft, so small, fragile even, but she was hardy. Northern ladies were sturdy, they had to be, but she was soft while also being sturdy. She’d refused to back down, refused to give him a break, and instead pushed through until he agreed to include her. With a start he realized she was exactly what he needed. She was smart and focused, though she was harsh - all of that from a single meeting. He could only guess at what being married to her would be like, and he found himself rather excited at the prospect.

The Margaery he’d known in his bedroom was the complete opposite of the Margaery at dinner. She’d been coy and quiet - the exact opposite of the fiery woman who’d demanded he include her. She ate her supper delicately and made polite conversation when called upon, but when he glanced at her he saw the woman who’d snuck into his chambers just a few hours before. She was quite a lot to handle, but he found he didn’t mind so much.

He laid in bed, his mind and body tossing and turning with thoughts of her. After he’d dissected every moment of their conversation, every glance at dinner, only then did his mind turn to darker thoughts; the thought that he may ride off to war in three days’ time and make her a widow again. All of the excitement vanished. He was going to fight Tywin Lannister, a man who was his better in every single way. Many military commanders never spoke of the fear that always came; the fear that existed until the battle began and adrenaline took over. Not just the fear of defeat, but the fear for his men, for his friends, for the ones he’d left behind with promises to return. He remembered his father saying that when a man is afraid that is the only time he can be brave. Fear was an emotion he’d come to know well. What was worse than the fear was the guilt that came after, knowing he’d led men into battle and that not all of them would return.

He drifted off in the small hours of the morning, only to be woken a few hours later by Dacey outside his door.

“Good morning, Your Grace,” she said politely as he entered the dining room half an hour later, still looking a bit disheveled.

“How are you always awake so early?” He asked, having long given up on insisting she call him by his name.

“Someone has to wake you up,” she said, cutting a slice of bread and cheese. Robb simply raised a brow and sat down in a chair. “Did you sleep well?”

He turned his gaze back to her. “I thought you knew me well enough by now to not ask that question.” He said it lightly.

“Forgive a friend for caring,” she said, and in a teasing tone continued, “Though . . . I suppose it must’ve been hard to get to sleep last night.”

“Why’s that?”

“I’ve heard many things about your bride-to-be.”

“Do these things you’ve heard keep you awake at night?”

“I sleep soundly, Your Grace. She isn’t my bride.” She said with a pointed look, and took a bite.

“It’ll be an . . . interesting marriage,” he said. That was the only thing he was certain of when it came to her.

“Hopefully not too interesting. After all of this I’d enjoy a rather dull marriage.”

“Do you think of marriage often, Dacey?” He asked with a laugh.

She raised her mouth into a smirk. “I do, Your Grace. I am the heir to Bear Island after all.”

He scoffed. “You can’t fool me. Your sister has, what? Two children already?” Dacey rolled her eyes.

“And another on the way,” she said, and Robb’s smile turned into a laugh.

“The two of you seem rather pleased this morning,” his mother said as she entered. Behind her was Ser Brynden, who’d barely left his mother’s side these past moons.

“How did you sleep, Mother?” He asked politely as she sat.

She nodded at the question but didn’t reply.

“So, what do you think of your bride?” Ser Brynden asked with a smirk. He saw his mother give him an exasperated look.

“The King is smitten and won’t admit it,” Dacey said with a laugh, popping a grape into her mouth.

He fought to keep his cheeks from turning red. “She seems like she’ll be a rather sweet wife,” he said, glaring daggers at Dacey.

“She’s certainly a pretty one,” Brynden said with a wink at Robb.

Catelyn gave her uncle another exasperated look. “She seems good and kind, and she’ll make a good and dutiful wife.”

Duty had been something instilled in him from a young age as heir to the North, but he did not believe Margaery had the same. It wasn’t dutiful to sneak into his chambers.

“We’ll be married in the sept?” He asked. He’d wanted to be wed in the godswood like Starks before him, but he knew the Tyrells to be devout. Or at least, they had to be. The Reach was the birthplace of the Faith of the Seven, after all.

“Yes,” she said. “In the same place that I wed your father nearly seventeen years ago.” She said it with a sad smile, and he knew she was thinking of him.

The familiar guilt of his father and sisters’ imprisonment stabbed at him again, but there was now new guilt added to that list, in the form of a woman with soft brown eyes. It had been days since they parted but her face was as fresh in his mind as the faces in front of him. He pushed it down and straightened his shoulders.

“I need to call a war council with the lords of the North and the Reach,” Robb said, turning his mind to matters that he had some control over.

“Mace and Olenna Tyrell want to meet with you today,” Dacey informed him.

“I’ll meet with them before the war council,” he said, and she went to deliver the message. “I’ll meet with them in an hours’ time and the war council following that."

“The steward needs to meet with you as well, as he now has another fifty thousand men he’s got to keep track of.” Brynden said.

“Most will be marching off in the next two days. Mother, can you take care of it?” She nodded.

“Uncle, will you call the steward to the study?” Brynden nodded and left the room, grabbing a few slices of bread and cheese on his way out.

His mother then turned to him, buttering her bread. “You’ll leave Margaery in Riverrun after the wedding?”

“I can’t exactly take her into battle with me,” he said, wondering her point.

“I speak from experience, my son, you do not want to start a marriage by leaving for long periods of time.”

“Mother, I have a war to fight. If I had a choice-”, he stopped, realizing what his mother meant. “I won’t take to another woman’s bed, if that is your meaning.” He said sharply. She didn’t understand just how deeply that comment struck.

“Even still . . . no man is perfect.”

“And I do not claim to be the perfect man.” Robb said, standing. “Now, I have a war to organize,” and left the room.

He’d relied on his mother so much in the recent months but as time progressed it seemed all she could focus on was their lost family and Robb’s flaws. The stress of the war was weighing on her as much as it was weighing on all of them, but he feared she was beginning to crack. The sooner this was all finished, the sooner they’d all be able to go home. _Home_. Winterfell seemed so distant, almost like a dream he’d half-forgotten. Had he really been a boy playing lord only a year ago? He was still a boy, except now he was playing at being king. Perhaps one day the crown would feel more a part of him, rather than a role.

He wandered the halls aimlessly, his mind wandering as much as his feet did. He wandered right into his betrothed, dressed in a pretty green frock that covered her more than the one she’d worn at their first meeting. He supposed Riverrun was colder than Highgarden.

“Your Grace,” she greeted, her voice sweet as she dipped into a curtsy.

“Lady Margaery. I was getting ready to meet with your father and grandmother.” He said, thinking how ironic it was.

“And I was getting ready to ask if you’d like to take a walk with me,” she said with a smile.

“You would have me tardy to a meeting with your own family,” he accused, but the corners of his mouth turned up regardless.

“A brief walk, then.” He felt he had no choice but to extend his arm, which she happily took.

“You were rather quiet at dinner last night,” he said.

“I thought I’d give the rest of my family a chance to know you. I know Garlan and Loras were especially eager to meet you.”

“Loras didn’t seem too eager to know me. The entire time he looked at me as if I’d wronged him.”

She laughed, light as a bell. “Loras takes his role of big brother rather seriously. You mustn’t mind him so.”

“I’ve heard he’s a great swordsman. Are you sure I shouldn’t take him seriously?” Robb was a fair swordsman himself, but he’d rather avoid a duel with his bride’s brother.

She laughed again, squeezing his arm. “Loras’ bark is worse than his bite.”

“What of Garlan then? You have three brothers, yes?”

“Yes. Willas is the eldest and my father’s heir, but he’s stayed in Highgarden to act as lord. Garlan is second eldest and he is the swordsman you should be worried of, not Loras. I once saw him beat off five men, a sword in each hand.”

“I’m glad that he’s not fighting against me, then,” he said.

Margaery nodded with a smile. “Are you usually such an early riser?”

Dawn had come but an hour before, and the light was only beginning to brighten the castle.

“Aye, always have been. And you? This is an early hour for any lady.”

“In truth I can be a rather late sleeper, but I rose early this morning.”

“My sister Sansa is the same way. Sometimes, she won’t break her fast till midday,” he said with a brief laugh. The pang of guilt was ever present.

“My brother Willas makes fun of me always, as he’s up before dawn everyday with his horses and hawks and hounds.”

“Oh? Does he breed?”

She nodded. “He trains them and will sometimes gift them to lords and friends.”

“He sounds a very busy man.” Robb said, admiring her. She glowed when she talked of her family; it made him feel closer to his own.

“He likes to keep himself busy. I’ll come down to the stables for a ride around midday and he’ll be there, laughing at me for just getting up.”

“I’m afraid I’m much more like your brother.” He told her.

“I won’t hold your sleeping habits against you if you don’t hold mine against me.” She said things in such a light and easy way that he had no choice but to laugh.

“No, the alliance still stands.” It was her turn to laugh. She laughed like she had not a care in the world, and Robb found he rather liked making her laugh.

“Did you know I’d never met a northman before I met you?” She asked.

“Am I everything you thought I’d be?” He asked, raising a brow.

“Mostly,” she conceded. “The one thing I didn’t expect was your accent.”

“My accent?”

“I was told that Northerners talked so gruffly through their thick, scraggly beards that no one below the Neck could understand a word.”

“Can you understand me, then? Or am I too scraggly?”

“I think it’s the beard that makes the difference,” she said with a coy smile. “As long as you don’t get too hairy our marriage should still work.”

“I’ll keep it trimmed then,” he said, feeling a lightness he’d not felt in weeks, if not months. He must looked rather scraggly now, he thought, since he hadn’t shaved since the Crag. _The Crag. How am I supposed to tell her about that? Am I supposed to tell her about that?_ He thought of their own encounter the previous day. _If I’d taken her then, when she wanted me to, would it be easier to tell her?_

He opened his mouth to speak but she’d already beaten him to it. “I’ve heard you are leaving Riverrun the day after our wedding.”

Robb swallowed. “Aye, my lady. I’m afraid I must.”

Margaery nodded in consent. “I only ask that you not leave at dawn. A wife would spend some time with her husband,” she said in the same light tone, but her words carried weight.

Robb stiffened. That was the last thing he wanted to talk about, especially since the wedding hadn’t even happened yet. He remembered his mother saying nearly the exact same, though she’d been accusing him of sleeping with other women. Margaery’s intentions seemed truer, which almost made him laugh. “Tywin Lannister does not wait, my lady, and neither must I.”

“You meet with your war council today, yes?” She asked, deftly changing the subject.

“Aye, my lady.”

“If you would take my advice . . .?” She looked at him as if asking for permission, and he nodded. “Reach lords are much different than Northerners. They are very prideful, you must be careful to not offend. Most will believe themselves to be in the right.”

“Don’t most men?” Robb smiled, letting her know he wasn’t completely serious.

Margaery smiled back at him, but it seemed forced. She shook her head. “They’ll test you, certainly, but they’ll offer prudent advice. Ser Baelor Hightower especially; you’ll find a good ally in him. Randyll Tarly is whom you must watch for, as he’ll do his best to make you look the fool.”

He thought for a moment. “Thank you,” he said honestly.

She nodded, the corners of her mouth turning up into a smile he’d not yet seen from her. A smile of agreement, perhaps, or maybe respect. He’d seen smiles of respect before, from his bannermen, but this as a different form of respect; it was a more equal.

They stared at each other for a moment, each taking in the effects of their brief conversation. A sense of equality was emerging, and it excited him. The woman standing before him was to be his queen, perhaps the only other equal he’d ever have again. The thought didn’t scare him.

The bell rang in the distance, signaling the start of the hour and the end of their conversation. “I’m afraid I must go meet with your family,” he said, though there was a part of him that wanted to stay with her.

“Let me give you some advice, at least,” she said. “My grandmother can be quite fickle.”

Robb nodded as they turned to walk towards the Tyrells’ rooms.

“My grandmother will do all the talking, but if my father talks to you make him feel you’re listening, even if it’s insignificant.”

He was surprised. “You think highly of your father, I gather?”

“I adore my father,” she argued, and left it at that. “My grandmother, however, is the one you need to listen to. If you don’t she’ll know and run you in circles.”

“She sounds quite the lady.”

“She _is_ the Queen of Thorns, Your Grace.”

“I’ll do my best to not prick myself,” he said with a light laugh.

They came to the door, their arms still linked. “This is where I leave you.”

“At the mouth of the lion’s den?” He asked, raising a brow.

She smiled playfully, her eyes twinkling. “Your Grace,” she said, and left him, her skirts swishing down the hallway.

* * *

 

His meeting with Lord Mace and the Queen of Thorns left him feeling he’d run a marathon. Margaery had been right to warn him, and he wished the image of her walking down the hallway hadn’t been present in his mind the entire time. The Queen of Thorns lived up to her name and did her very best to make him bleed. They’d talked politics first, which had been necessary but rather straightforward. His marriage to Margaery was simply part of a military alliance, and the Reach would not become his kingdom through the marriage. The benefit to him was gaining fifty thousand swords, and the benefit to them is that they did not have to align themselves with Joffrey. Without hesitating she’d moved to Margaery herself, not only testing his intentions, but his character. The way she spoke made him wonder if she knew of their first meeting. If she did she gave nothing away. He answered as best he could, and by the time they were finished he felt as if he’d had his life story pummeled out of him. He felt that if he hadn’t won her then his marriage was already off to a rather bad start. Even so, Lady Olenna looked at him with something close to respect.

From there he assembled his war council. He found himself at the head of a table of powerful lords where in every chair sat a man more experienced than he. He had proved himself to his own lords, but now Randyll Tarly, Baelor Hightower, Mathis Rowan, and Paxter Redwyne stood before him, all lords of great and powerful houses. He had to find a way to win them all, despite more than half having already fought in a war before. He had to find a way to make them follow him.

“My lords,” he greeted, giving a nod to his familiar Northern lords and the foreign Reach lords in turn.

“At present, my uncle Edmure is chasing Tywin Lannister towards Casterly Rock-”

“Would it not be better to have him chase him away from the Rock?” came the first objection, and from none other than Randyll Tarly. He was a man of medium height, but height didn’t matter. He stared at Robb with distrusting eyes, his brow creased and his mouth a thin straight line.

“A fair question, Lord Tarly. By chasing Tywin towards Casterly Rock we are preventing him from giving aid to King’s Landing, which is currently the target of Stannis Baratheon.” This seemed to, if not appease, interest Tarly enough to not interrupt him again. “What we must do, my lords, is trap him between our armies and Edmure’s without him realizing what we are doing. Tywin will have heard of our alliance by now and is no doubt hurrying towards Casterly Rock as we speak. It is imperative that we cut him off.”

“And how do you propose to do that?” Mathis Rowan asked, not unkindly.

“Edmure is here, near High Heart, as of the last raven I received. Tywin is several miles to the west, and we must reach him before Golden Tooth, here.”

“Your Grace, Tywin will expect an attack at Golden Tooth, as you’ve already used it as a battle site.” Baelor Hightower spoke.

“Indeed, it would be better to meet him here, at Wayfarer’s Rest.” Randyll Tarly pressed his finger to the map.

“The ground is much too open,” Maege Mormont argued. “At Golden Tooth the battle can be more controlled. Besides, Tywin may reach Wayfarer’s Rest before we do.”

“The Northern men may fare better in tight spaces, but cavalry does not.” Mathis Rowan said.

He suddenly realized that he was fighting this battle at the head of a combined army, and not a Northern or Riverlands army. He hadn’t given enough thought to the strategy that would be needed for this combined army, and his shortcomings were becoming painfully clear. He cursed himself, straightening his shoulders.

“If we send the cavalry out tomorrow they’ll make it in time to meet Tywin at Wayfarer’s Rest,” Robb said, “and that’ll give time for the footmen to corner him at Golden Tooth.”

“The cavalry could join with Edmure’s army,” Baelor suggested. “That way we’ll avoid heavy casualties and slow Tywin enough for the footmen to make it to the Tooth.”

“We can organize small bands of men,” Roger Ryswell suggested. “They could pick at the outer fringes of the army, and could even send out raids at night.”

“Tywin will see that coming,” Randyll Tarly said. “Though there may be something in it. I would ask permission to lead the cavalry.” He asked as if asking was beneath him.

“As would I,” Garlan Tyrell and Baelor Hightower volunteered at the same time. The two men looked at each other and shared a smile.

“I would also ask permission,” Roger Ryswell spoke. The Ryswells were from a flat land in the North called the Rills. It was one of the more popular places in the North to breed horses, and he knew Roger had plenty of experience.

“Lord Tarly?”

The man nodded. “We will ride out in the morning.”

“I wish you luck. After the wedding takes place I will follow with the footmen. I’ll send a message once we’ve reached the Tooth.” He looked around the table. Many lords seemed satisfied, even the ones who hadn’t spoken. “If we are in agreement I’d call this meeting finished.” They were, and it was.

Robb returned to his chambers, not sure if he’d earned the respect of the Reach lords but not unsure either. He let out a sigh once the door closed behind him, letting his crown drop to the table. He ruffled his hair, getting rid of the marks the crown had made, and closed his eyes. The crown itself was not a heavy object, but the weight it carried made him glad every time he took it off.

He heard a knock on the door and sighed again before answering, “Yes?”

“It’s your mother.”

Robb had let himself hope for a brief moment that it might be his bride, but his mother was fine too, he supposed. She entered, taking the chair by his desk.

“How did your meetings go?”

“Well,” he said. “I’ll tell you the details later.”

“Very well. I came to talk to you about your bride, anyway.”

“What of her?”

“Perhaps not so much of your bride, but marriage itself.” Robb gave her a look, urging her to continue. “I was not much older than you when I was wed to your father,” she began, and he saw her slip back in time. “It was difficult for us at first, but he came home to me and I gave him you. And now . . . and now you are about to embark on the same journey. Marriage is not easy, my son, and you are still young, though I know you’d prefer not to admit it, but I know you will be a good husband to her. I would expect no less of you.”

Robb nodded, letting her words sink in. He didn’t think marriage to Margaery Tyrell would be easy, but in that he felt some excitement. Perhaps he didn’t want an easy marriage. He’d always admired his parents’ love and devotion to each other, but he wanted something passionate; he wanted someone to surprise him, to get under his skin, to make his mood change with every look. He wanted something exciting and new. So while he was happy that his parents had such a fulfilling marriage he knew that there was more in store for him. “I will do my best to be a good husband,” he said truly, and his mother smiled at him with tears in her eyes.

“You have a lifetime of wonder in store for you, my son.”

Margaery’s voice echoed through his mind. _I only ask to be included._ “I believe I do,” he said, the corner of his mouth turning up at the thought.


	4. Margaery II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She was a young flower who had grown in the most fertile lands during the longest summer in living memory, and now she was to become Queen of Winter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey! i meant to update yesterday but i had a lot of work i still needed to do for this chapter, so i hope y'all don't mind i'm kind of a day late (i never set a schedule, but i have usually been updating on thursdays and that'll probably keep happening) also, i really love exploring the culture shock for margaery and the differences between the reach and the north and i just had so much fun contrasting the different cultures (and how that affects robb n marg); but u know what they say, opposites attract
> 
> as always, thank you for reading and please leave a kudos or a comment if you like!!

“What are you pacing the room for?” Garlan asked, startling her. She stopped her pacing, not even realizing that she had, in fact, been pacing.

“How did the meetings go?” She asked as her family filed into the sitting room. She tried to keep a cool temperament, but she hadn’t been able to stop worrying about how her husband-to-be fared during his two meetings. Had he earned the respect of the Reach lords? Had he come up with a capable battle plan? Did he heed her advice? He already seemed frighteningly easy to manipulate, which was good news for her, but she hoped he wasn’t as passive with his bannermen. And besides, the entire process would be much easier if the Reach lords respected him.

“Your husband-to-be certainly has his ideas,” Loras said, frustratingly vague. He hadn’t been quite right since Renly’s death, but the spark was beginning to come back into his eyes. If only he could’ve given her a better answer.

At last, her grandmother gave her the answer she was looking for. “He’s a smart boy, a good enough military leader, but it was fairly obvious he hadn’t figured out the differences between the Reach army and his own before stepping foot into that room. His mind must’ve been filled with other thoughts.” She gave her a look of pride, but Margaery didn’t feel proud. She’d gotten into his head, yes, but he’d also returned the favor, and she’d rather he hadn’t.

Even still, she wished he’d done better. _I did warn him, and he seemed to have listened. That bodes well. Though for a King he doesn’t seem to be so good at politics._ “Did he completely bungle it?”

“That’s the thing,” Garlan said. “He’s very quick on his feet. Once he realized his mistake he orchestrated a fine plan. It made me question if he truly hadn’t thought about the combined army until then.”

Margaery breathed a small sigh of relief, and then felt foolish for doing so. “So what _is_ the plan?”

Garlan gave her a strange look, but obliged her. “Randyll Tarly is leading the cavalry, and Ser Baelor, Roger Ryswell and I are accompanying him. I’m afraid I’ll miss your wedding, dear sister,” he said, obviously regretting that fact. “Your King will be following with the footmen the next day.”

“It’s a fine thing how he whipped his fish uncle into shape and has him chasing the old lion,” Olenna said. “I’m sure Tywin’s cursing himself now, thinking about how he could be protecting his precious legacy in King’s Landing right now.”

“Stannis will take the city,” Garlan said with certainty. “In either case, the sooner Stannis gets the Iron Throne and we finish Tywin off, the sooner I can get home to Leo.”

“You want Stannis to sit on the Iron Throne?” Margaery asked. Stannis would surely be better than Joffrey, but she knew exactly who she wanted on the Iron Throne.

“I want to go home to my wife and unborn child,” he said. “Stannis on the throne seems the most likely way for that to happen.”

“We’ve allied ourselves with the Northerners now, and Stannis will not rest until all seven kingdoms are under him. In his eyes, we are traitors.” Margaery said.

“Stannis killed Renly,” Loras said softly. “He is the traitor.” Margaery put a comforting hand on Loras’ shoulder, squeezing gently. He cleared his throat, saying “Don’t fret, Garlan; you’ll go home to her.” Even so, the statement was a double-edged sword. Loras would never go home to Renly.

Their grandmother ended the conversation, knowing the double edges of Loras’ statement. “I’ve lived long enough to know that nothing is set in stone. Margaery, dear, do you have everything ready for tomorrow?”

She hadn’t been ready to switch topics so quickly, especially not that topic. _Seven hells, tomorrow was her wedding day._ “Yes, Grandmama.”

“The sooner you can get into his bed, the sooner you can get into his head.” Her grandmother gave her a knowing nod; but Margaery was left wondering if it wasn’t Robb who had gotten into her head as well. She would wed him tomorrow and become not only his wife, but Queen in the North. The possibilities loomed before her, as enlightening as they were foreboding. She was struck with a cold thought: she might only be queen for a moon’s turn, maybe less, if he did not defeat Tywin. She shivered.

“Go over this plan with me again,” Margaery said. “I’d like to know every detail.”

Her grandmother gave her a strange look, as she knew that Margaery had never shown a keen interest in military matters, but Garlan obliged her.

“And if Tywin wins the battle at the Golden Tooth?” She asked. No one had seemed to come up with a plan for that.

“He will not win,” Garlan said with blind certainty. Her brother seemed to make a habit of that in wartime.

“But what if he does? What will happen to us, our family, if the King is killed and Tywin reaches Casterly Rock?” Margaery asked, trying to keep her heart in check. It was her wits she needed, not her foolish woman’s heart.

“We will swear our fealty to King Joffrey,” Olenna said easily, “and you will wed the King.”

Her grandmother had said the same when she’d asked what would happen if Renly died. The words had made her cold then, and they made her cold now.

“It will not happen,” Garlan denied once again,being able to read the slight change on her face. “With a bit of luck you will be happily wed to this Northerner for as long as you live.”

The words did not bring comfort, however. Her affections, or whatever they were, were too obvious. _Keep hold of yourself, Margaery!_ She mustn’t let Robb get to her. Not now, when everything was at stake. She could not allow herself to have affection for him, she could not allow herself to even care for him. He was just a means of keeping her and her family out of the Lannisters’ clutches. She was getting the crown she had been preparing for since birth, and she was going to use it to protect her family. That was all this marriage was, nothing more.

“Please, excuse me,” she said, and took her leave of her family.

She retreated to the rooms she’d been given, closing the door behind her and sitting down in front of her mirror. She took the pins from her hair and let it fall freely down her shoulders, nearly touching her waist. She looked at herself, not seeing a woman nearly twice wed, but a sixteen-year-old girl; a sixteen-year-old widow. It was customary for women to wed young in the Reach, some as young as thirteen, so marriage and the concept of being young in a marriage had never quite bothered her until now. Tomorrow she would wed a King, and become Queen in the North. Queen of a people whom she barely knew the customs of. She missed Highgarden; she missed green grass and warm sunlight, she wanted to go out for a long ride with her ladies. She enjoyed the challenges of the game, she enjoyed thinking through problems and finding solutions, and she was good at it, but she’d give anything to go home and fall into a bit of familiarity. Riverrun was beautiful, the Starks were good people, and she knew Robb would not hurt her, but this was not the place for her. The only game here was Robb, and while he intrigued her, rather more than she wanted him to, he was going to be easy. _Margaery, you fool, it’s better than being married to Joffrey._ She shook her head. _Though, if I was wed to Joffrey, I would be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms_ , another part of her said. _Here, I will only be Queen in the North. Queen of one kingdom. I could’ve had six more._ The thought was foolish, but there was a small part of her that wanted it, no matter the consequences. _No! I will not think of that, not yet. I will marry Robb, and then I will win over Riverrun, as their Queen. I’ll go from there._ And yet, her heart still longed for Highgarden. She was a young flower who had grown in the most fertile lands during the longest summer in living memory, and now she was to become Queen of Winter. Without realizing, she began twisting her hair into a single braid.

She tied it at the end and let it sit on her shoulder, admiring it for a moment. _This is who I must be._ There was a knock at the door, and she subconsciously moved it over her shoulder, the end hitting the small of her back. “Enter,” she said casually.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear a single braid before,” Loras said as he entered, a strange look on his face. She laughed, a bit forcefully, and began to undo it. It felt strange in front of Loras.

“No, no, it suits you,” he said. “You look like Lady Catelyn.”

“I look nothing like Lady Catelyn,” she said, not even sure of what she was trying to say. “Lady Catelyn has been Lady of Winterfell for near seventeen years. I have not even reached my seventeenth nameday.”

“Neither has King Robb,” he pointed out. “And yet he is remarkably kingly. Much more so than Joffrey. During the council meeting today he wore his crown - it’s rather intimidating, truth be told; it is both new and ancient, and yet he has a way of wearing it that . . . I don’t know . . . he carries the burden not without hardship but perhaps with . . . with endurance. He is well aware of his position.”

She was pleased to hear he wore the crown well, but it only made her more apprehensive. Northerners were different, after all. She needed to learn that quickly. “And now I must become aware of mine.” She sighed and removed the braid, becoming the girl from the Reach once more.

“Do you think him a good man?” Margaery asked, turning to face him.

“I could not say. He is a good king, and good kings can be good men.”

“But good men are almost never good kings,” she said, well-versed in her history of Westeros. Aenys I was a good man by all accounts, but he was a weak king, and his weakness had made way for Maegor the Cruel. Though the King in the North was no Aenys, nor Maegor.

“What do _you_ think of him?” Loras asked, sitting.

Margaery bit her lip, a habit that had persisted despite her grandmother’s insistence. “I don’t think anything of him,” she said stubbornly.

Loras raised his eyebrows. “We both know that isn’t true.”

Margaery huffed. “I’ve only had one dinner with him, and we barely spoke.”

“Seven hells, Marg, I know you better than that.”

She bit her lip again. “I’ve spoken to him twice,” she admitted. “Once yesterday evening and once this morning.”

“Grandmother wanted you to bed him?” He guessed. Margaery nodded.

“He didn’t let me, though. It’s strange, Loras. He didn’t seem to like me at all until I stopped trying to seduce him. He actually, um . . .” she let out a laugh since it was still so absurd, “he actually asked my opinion, asked my _advice_ , and listened to me when I told him!” He gave her a strange look. “Oh, you know what I mean! I know you loved Renly, but I was a house ornament to him.” He stiffened at Renly’s name but she knew he understood.

“What did he ask you about?” Loras asked.

“In truth, actually, we were arguing-”

“The first time you meet the man you’re to spend your life with you argue with him?” Loras asked, amused.

“You would’ve yelled at him too if you’d heard what he said to me!” She defended, knowing that her brother would’ve reacted far worse than she did. Loras had always preferred swords to words. “Anyway, I told him that I had a rather low opinion of him and he asked me what that opinion was, so I told him.”

“You told him what?”

Margaery wet her lips. “I told him that he was an arrogant and foolish boy.”

Loras smiled, and that smile turned into a laugh, a very loud and obnoxious laugh. “You called your King and betrothed . . . an arrogant, foolish _boy_!”

“Yes! I did!” Margaery said indignantly. “But that’s not the whole story.”

“Was he so flattered by your insults he let you into his bed?” Loras continued laughing.

“Loras!”

“Fine, fine . . . I was only teasing.” He shook his head one more time in disbelief. “What happened then?”

Margaery composed herself. “Then we talked politics for a time. He didn’t even seem to like me until we talked about the war and what would happen afterwards. It was strange, Loras. He seemed to listen to me, seemed to _value me_ . And this morning I walked with him for a time before his meetings, and he accepted my advice on the Reach lords and for his meeting with Grandmama and Father. He’s not so dull-witted as I first believed.” _Easy to manipulate, but not dull-witted._

“You care for him,” he accused.

Margaery fidgeted. “He’ll be easier than Joffrey.”

“That’s all?” Loras raised an eyebrow, and she hated him. He’d hated him last night at diner, fixing him with untrusting stares, and not five minutes before he’d come in praising him. Her brother might know what to think of him less than she did.

“Loras, I’m very aware of what I’m doing,” she only half-lied. “You need not worry about me.”

“You know full well I am always going to worry about you.” Loras said, and paused for a long time. “It’s good that he listens to you. I know how you’ve wished for that.”

The corner of her mouth raised into an appreciative smile. She moved to sit beside him and took his hand in her own. “You will stay with me, yes? I may become a Queen and wife tomorrow, but I don’t want to lose my brother.”

“I told you I’d never leave you,” he said, as he’d said the night of Renly’s death. “Queens need their own guards, yes?”

“You’d miss honor and glory for me?” She asked, touched. They were devoted to each other as all close siblings were, but over the past few months Loras had stayed especially close to her, and her to him.

“I’ll protect you,” he promised, and it was the only thing Margaery knew to be true.

* * *

 

She turned to her mirror after Loras left her, and found herself wishing for her mother. She’d taken out the single braid, the braid that looked like Lady Catelyn’s, and now her hair was just hanging around her shoulders. Her mother would be able to tell her how to wear her hair. She knew it was a stupid thing, gods, she was being so stupid, but her mother was smart about these things. Unlike her grandmother, her mother had been betrothed to her father, meeting him but once before their wedding day. She’d understand how she felt. Or maybe she wouldn’t. Her mother wasn’t a queen, and her father was not Robb. Her parents had an amicable marriage, but the only woman her father listened to was her grandmother, and that was because she forced him. _No, my mother would not understand why I feel_. . . she didn’t want to say affection, because it wasn’t affection. She didn’t feel affection, not for someone she’d just met. She felt attraction, she definitely felt attraction with him, but she’d felt it with so many others and she didn’t understand why this was different. She wished she could speak with someone about this, but her grandmother wouldn’t understand, she’d tell her that she has other things to focus on besides ‘attraction’, and her father and brothers wouldn’t understand either.

In that moment she regretted not being closer with her mother. Alerie Hightower was as much a Hightower as Margaery was a Tyrell. Her mother had never wanted a daughter to begin with. Willas was hers, first and foremost. Garlan was his own, and had been happy like that, until meeting Leonette. Loras was her father’s pride and joy since Willas’ injury. And Margaery, from the moment she’d been born she’d belonged to her grandmother.

She messed with her hair again, getting frustrated. She was not her grandmother, she was not her mother, she was not a Northerner, she was not a Queen. _Curse you, Robb Stark, for making me think like this._ She wished her handmaidens were here, but they’d stayed in Highgarden where it was safe. _Safe_ , she thought, _what place in the world is ever safe?_ Her own skin felt uncomfortable. She needed company, she needed to talk to someone that wasn’t named Tyrell.

She walked out of her room, hair undone, stalking down the hallways, through corridors and corners, not caring where she was going, until she ended up outside. She was surrounded by trees, almost like the gardens in Highgarden, but the air carried a different feel. This place was stout and small, but it was sturdy. It felt sturdier than the gardens at home, which were always light and full of little bees buzzing and birds chirping. This place was quiet, but it was a peaceful quiet. She walked further in, intrigued, until she saw the weirwood and realized where she was.

She’d been in a godswood before; there was one at home but it was never used. It was kept because the trees were ancient, and no one would tear them down and they wouldn’t die. As she ventured further she realized just how different they were. Highgarden was a grand castle, built during the Age of Heroes, with all the pomposity that came with such a history, but Riverrun had a completely different feel to it. Highgarden was light and sweet and an eternal paradise and she loved it dearly, but Riverrun had roots. This place was timeless. _This place will exist long after I am gone from the earth_ . She took a step further, leaves crunching under her feet, and she felt she was intruding. _I do not belong here._ She looked up, and saw the leaves rustle, as if they were speaking. _The trees do not want me_ , she realized. _This tranquility is not meant for me._ She hugged her arms around herself, wishing she’d brought a cloak. The air was cold here, despite the warm autumn wind. The chill went straight to her summer heart.

“Margaery?” he said, startling her. She turned quickly, the trance broken, and dropped into a curtsy for the King.

“Your Grace.” She wished she had a cloak. She felt naked here, and not just because of the cold. She could feel not only his eyes on her, but the trees’ as well.

“I thought we agreed to call each other by our first names in private,” he said, a small smile playing on his lips.

 _Curse that smile_ , she thought. _Curse my heart._ “Forgive me. This doesn’t seem like a private place.”

Robb looked at her, a bit surprised. “It’s only the two of us here.”

Margaery shook her head, biting her lip. _Stop it._ “Your gods are here, are they not?”

Robb looked around, his eyes settling on the weirwood at the heart. “Perhaps they once were,” he said, and something else, something so immensely sad and wistful, crept into his voice, “but I do not feel them here.”

Margaery didn’t know what to say. Her fingers grasped her golden rose necklace. It was a shallow object compared to this place.

“The godswood at Winterfell is much older than this,” Robb remarked. “This feels like a garden.”

“A garden?” Margaery asked, her voice raised in surprise. “I come from a castle of gardens, this is not that.”

He looked at her strangely, and lifted his eyebrows. “Is this your first time in a godswood?” She hated the amusement in his voice.

“No,” she said, a tad too defensively. “There’s a godswood at Highgarden. With three weirwoods.”

“Three?” He said, his amused smile growing. “You must know more of the old gods than I, as we have but one weirwood in Winterfell.”

Her nose twitched. _Curse this man!_ “Don’t mock me! I worship the Seven, as my mother and father and their mothers and fathers before them did.” Gods, something about him really made her blood boil.

“Pfft,” he said, “new gods.” She could tell he didn’t mean it seriously, but there he was - under her skin once more. He’d caught her in a moment of vulnerability, and she hated him for it.

He’d seemed to notice the loss of her normal demeanor and quit with his religious charade. “I suppose it’s different for me, as I was raised to be comfortable in a sept and a godswood. There is a sept here, if you’d like me to show it to you?” He offered his arm.

She hesitated, a hundred thoughts going through her mind. He’d offended her, mocking her, but she didn’t feel angry. He had a warm smile, and she didn’t want to blow him off and hurt him. She hesitated and bit her lip, but she accepted her fate. She took his arm, and something changed.

The sept was not far from the godswood, but it was smaller than she expected. She hadn’t expected some great affair like the Highgarden sept, complete with larger-than-life statues of the Seven. The Riverrun sept seemed to barely have enough room to seat the population of the castle. That was the largest difference she had found between deep Southerners and the Northern and Riverlands folk. Her people were pompous and loved to show it, with expensive silks and giant jewels and ornate feasts. War was the same, something gallant and necessary for glory; but for Robb’s people it was a reluctant hardship and a cruel necessity. She’d seen little of Northerners thus far, but they didn’t seem to want the same. They didn’t seek for vast material wealth or empty glory, they sought simplicity. Their castles were simple, their religion was simple, even their clothing was simple. Robb was a King and yet he dressed as his bannermen did. It confounded her.

They walked towards the sept in companionable silence, with the only sound being the leaves crunching under their feet. It wasn’t a strange sound to her - she’d lived through a handful of autumns - but like everything else here it was different. The last autumn had come when she was a small child, staring in wonder as the leaves changed and float to the ground in an orange-red rain. Autumn always meant change, but spring always came again and the leaves grew back, green and soft. Somehow that certainty wasn’t so certain here, or perhaps she was just older now.

The sept was a sturdy structure, simple in its make and yet not without ornamentation. _This is where I’ll marry him tomorrow._ It was a strange thought.

They stepped inside, her arm still wrapped in his, and Margaery felt comfortable again. Here the eyes of the Seven watched her, the trustworthy eyes of the familiar, and she was free of the eyeless and voiceless gods of her betrothed. Her shoulders untensed and she subconsciously leaned into him.

It was then that she realized. “Oh, gods,” she said, putting her free hand to her hair. _I’ve been walking around with my hair down, with him, of all men! What must people think?_

“Margaery?” He asked with sudden concern.

Wordlessly she took her arm from his and began trying to put her hair up, trying not to think of all the people who must’ve seen her. “I can’t be seen like this!”

Robb blinked in confusion. “You look like you normally do?”

 _Gods, he knows nothing!_ “I’ve been walking around with my hair - why didn’t you say anything?”

“I didn’t realize hair was so meaningful,” he said. She hated him for sounding amused.

“Gods, you don’t understand! An unmarried noble lady like myself walking around with her hair completely unbound, especially with _a man_ . . . people may start to think.” From childhood her grandmother had hammered into her that she must keep her appearance perfect at all times, lest people start to talk.

Robb laughed. “Come now, no one’s going to think anything. Besides, we’re to be wed tomorrow. They won’t have _time_ to think anything.”

The culture shock hit her full force. “It may be different in the North, but in the Reach we do have certain standards of living.” She’d slept with many, many people but she’d always been able to keep her reputation intact. If it was thrown away now, right on the eve of her wedding it would be a waste of years and years of carefulness and lectures from her grandmother.

“In the North we don’t stake our reputations on how our hair is done,” he said warmly, almost teasing. She knew he thought her absurd, but this was what she’d been raised with. Her grandmother told her she may do what she like in her own bed, as long as it stayed there.

She let her hair fall. “In the South we trivialize many things, but there’s a purpose to it.” The sept had become cold. It was certainly warmer than the godswood but goosebumps rose on her skin.

“Are you cold?” He asked, abandoning the subject. She was startled to find that she was shivering.

“No,” she lied, unconvincingly.

Before she said anything Robb was already removing his cloak and draping it around her shoulders. It was heavy, much heavier than any cloak she’d ever worn, but the warmth was more than welcome. Her sleeveless gown was fine for the midday weather but it was nearing evening now and the temperature was dropping just as quickly as the sun.

The sunset shone through the painted glass of the sept, turning the statues to radiant stone, but she had no eyes for them. The dappled glass shone on Robb’s face, his eyes a thousand colors, all of them warm. His blue eyes turned to sapphire jewels, his curls a canvas for the colored light. _In this light he looks like a god_ , she thought; but the light moved and he became mortal once more. Even still, Margaery saw a glimpse of the man he could be, the great, glorious, and independent King in the North. But the light had changed, and he was only a man. He wasn’t quite a man yet, though. He was a King and a proven military commander, but there was still a hint of baby fat in his cheeks and his chin was covered in new stubble.

“Thank you,” she said, captivated, “for the cloak.”

He smiled at her easily, and his weariness disappeared for a moment. How strange, she thought, that of all men, of any man she could ever be wed to, it was this sad, weary, young, smart, handsome, burdened boy.

“Anytime, my lady,” he said, his eyes shining. He was so close to her, his blue Tully eyes meeting her brown Tyrell ones with a gaze that no man had given her before. She was close enough to see the light freckles on his nose, the stray wisps of curly hair that didn’t quite stay with the rest, feel the heat emanating off of his skin.

She wanted to lean in, to press her lips to his, to _feel_ him. She leaned forward, slowly, on tip toes, but his gaze changed and he pulled away. The moment was gone, and the world was cold.

Margaery hugged his cloak around her, waiting for him to say something, knowing that anything she might say would fall extraordinarily flat.

“It grows late,” he said at last, and Margaery knew what he meant, “and we have a long day tomorrow.”

“Forgive me if I’ve gone too far,” she started, but he shook his head.

“It isn’t you.” His burden seemed to be even greater than she’d thought it was.

“Then what is it?” She pressed, though she knew it’d be fruitless.

He rolled his shoulders. “You spoke of standards, yes? Northerners have their own as well.”

This frustrated her. She was in too deep to back out now. “I would know them, as I’ll be a wife to a Northerner this time tomorrow.”

But Robb only shook his head, keeping her out. She couldn’t bear it, and she needed to seize this moment.

“You’ve been so kind to me these last two days, though I know you’ve been busy with this war. Please believe me when I tell you I only wish to help, to understand. I will not judge you for your misdeeds if you do not judge mine. You remember what I asked yesterday, and it is all I ask today. Include me.” It wasn’t entirely fake.

He sighed, and the weight of the world returned to his shoulders. “Northerners demand honor, justice, truth. Without those our way of life is nothing. When people go against these it’s . . .” he trailed off, unable to find the words, but Margaery knew what he was trying to say.

He believed her not fit to be Queen.

“Your Grace, I can understand how our two kingdoms are different when it comes to customs, but I have no doubts we will be able to manage.” She could not lose him this early in the game.

Her words were vague enough that he was confused. Robb wore his emotions on his sleeve, and she saw how he went from confusion to questioning to a strange mix of understanding, doubt, and humor.

“Do you believe yourself to be lacking in honor, justice and truth, Margaery?” He asked, that irritating little smile of his plastered on his face.

Her eyes squinted at him, but before she could reply her betrothed began to laugh. Slowly at first, but soon his entire body was shaking with the effort. She could only stare at him, struck dumb.

“We certainly have do have different _customs_ ,” he said, still chuckling, and nodded his head. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” and he left, still laughing.

Margaery was left standing in the sept with her head spinning, still wrapped in his cloak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to be completely clear, robb's been rejecting marg's advances because of jeyne, and that's who he's talking about at the end, though margaery thinks he's talking about her


	5. Robb III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'At least I’m not marrying a Frey girl', he thought abstractedly. 'Though that might’ve been an easier marriage than this one is sure to be'.

The sept was packed. Every Northern and Reach lord had gathered in the small sept to witness the union of North and South, but a few soldiers and stewards had managed to sneak their way in. He was standing at the center of the sept, next to the septon, who he’d found out was the very same man who’d wed his mother and father. He seemed calm and cheerful with a pleasant fat smile upon his face while Robb felt anything but. He was nervous, but he shouldn’t be. He should be nervous for the battle he was soon to fight, but instead he felt nervous about this. _That’s rather foolish, isn’t it?_ After all, he’d led men into battle, killed men, hurt men, but here he was, picking at his nails like some juvenile. That wasn’t the worst of it either; his palms were sweaty and his doublet seemed to stick to him. _It’s only the waiting_ , he told himself, looking towards the closed doors between the statues of the Maiden and the Mother where the bride would enter.

 _At least I’m not marrying a Frey girl_ , he thought abstractedly. _Though that might’ve been an easier marriage than this one is sure to be._ His mind drifted, and he found himself wondering whether his wife was coming to the marriage bed a maid. It would make so much sense, from her coming to his chambers that first night and the lack of maiden blushes as she’d lifted her skirts. Would he care if she weren’t a maid? He wasn’t coming to the marriage bed as one, so perhaps it didn’t matter if she was either. He’d heard that she hadn’t lain with her first husband, but knowing what he knew about the late king that didn’t surprise him. He came to the conclusion that he didn’t mind so much. He’d never slept with a maiden, he wouldn’t know how to protect her from the worst of it, he didn’t even _know_ the worst of it. He’d heard it was very painful, and he couldn’t imagine doing that to his new wife. It would be much easier for both of them this way. He did wonder who she’d been with before, though. It couldn’t have been Renly. Some boy in her youth, perhaps. It didn’t matter now, though, since today she would become his.

 _Maid Margaery is to be my wife, and Queen in the North at that._ He barely knew what to think of it. He hadn’t known what to think of it when he’d received the news weeks ago, but he thought he knew less now. Margaery Tyrell was a paradox. She acted the shy and innocent maiden, but he already knew her rage. It seemed there was a very angry and intelligent woman simmering just below the surface of the seemingly sweet maid, and it intrigued him more than he cared to admit. But perhaps it wasn’t all an act. He’d seen her in the godswood, small amongst the trees. She always tried to act so large, so much bigger and smarter than anyone else, but the godswood stripped that away. Standing there in her summer clothes, her hair unbound, the leaves falling around her; she’d taken his breath away. She’d seemed so lost, so helpless. He’d caught her in a moment of vulnerability, and he’d seen how she despised him for it, but he only felt warmth for her. She’d glared at him when he’d placed his cloak round her shoulders, dwarfing her in the thick wool, but he saw the appreciation too. In truth, Robb didn’t know what to make of her. She seemed half a girl at times, reckless and fast and red, but at other times she was like the summer wind, warm but a bit playful, and yet at other times she seemed so small, girl and widow and queen.

She was not a queen yet, though. She would not be until she walked through those doors and joined him. He looked around at the different lords until his eyes settled on his lady mother, talking to her personal guard. _Brienne of Tarth, I think?_ She was not an easy woman to forget, and his mother had told him some of her, but this was the first time he’d seen her. His mother was smiling as she spoke with her, and it made him glad. His mother deserved happiness, even in these unhappiest of times. His heart felt empty as he looked around once more. His absent family members bit at his heart.  

He’d sent Theon to Pyke and hadn’t heard from him since. He wondered if he knew of his marriage. He missed him. He should be here making lewd jokes with that shit-eating grin of his. Jon should be here too. He hadn’t thought of Jon in so long, but as boys he’d promised to be at his wedding, he’d always promised he would be right by his side through everything. Instead he’d abandoned him for the Wall, where he wasn’t of any use to anyone. It’d been two years since he’d seen him, with his little smile and hair that he loved more than anything. He’d be a man grown now, like him. _He should be here. They should both be here._ And not just them; Sansa, Arya, Bran, Rickon, _his father_. The fluttering in his stomach worsened. Sansa would be crying, since she always cried about weddings. Arya would make fun of him but he thought she may like his bride. Arya was made of hardy stuff and he thought Margaery rather the same. They were both opinionated, that was certain. Bran and Rickon would be restless next to their mother, more excited for the feast than the wedding. And his father . . . his father would be standing beside him, giving him a comforting smile and a clap on the back, speaking volumes without saying a word.

He made eye contact with his mother, who seemed to be thinking the same. She nodded at him, tears in her eyes, and it helped to still the butterflies in his belly. He took a deep breath, and the doors opened.

She was glowing. Light spilled in with the open doors, illuminating the gold in her dress and the golden roses braided into her hair. Her gown was as green as summer grass, her skin as warm and radiant as the summer sun. Her face was bathed in the light of the midday sun and the stained glass windows of the sept. Nothing in his life had ever compared to this moment.

Before he knew it she was standing in front of him, her honey-colored eyes bright and shining. She gave him a small smile, and he could not help smiling back. Her father took the golden rose cloak from her shoulders and he gave her his own, cloaking her in the gray and white direwolf. She smelled so sweet, like the fruit from the glass gardens, and he was intoxicated. She smiled her sweet, shy smile as the cloak settled on her shoulders, the smile that turned his heart to wax, melting under her gaze.

They turned to the septon and joined hands. He felt somewhat self-conscious for a moment, since his hands were rough and calloused and hers were soft. She squeezed his hand gently, her fingers curling around his, and the negative feelings faded away. The septon began speaking, saying the words that had been said at countless weddings before theirs.

When he was finished they turned to each other, saying in unison, “With this kiss I pledge my love,” and her lips met his for the first time. They were as soft as he’d imagined, and as sweet as strawberries. He didn’t hear the applause and the joyous shouts, he didn’t hear the septon finishing the ceremony behind them. At that moment the only thing that existed in the world was her. She took his hand once more, smiling, and together they faced the crowd.

“This man and this woman are now one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever,” the septon proclaimed joyfully. Robb could only look at her, feel her hand in his, see the smile on her heart-shaped face. _My wife_ , he thought, and his heart was full.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapter, but wedding! sorry for not updating last week, i just got busy since all my profs decided to put tests at the same time :/ but here is an update! i might update again today or tomorrow, or do a double update next week. please let me know what you think!


	6. Catelyn I

Catelyn had never seen her son so happy as when he looked at his wife for the first time. He’d seemed so nervous before she walked in, just like she remembered Ned looking at their own wedding, standing there fiddling with his hands and an awkward smile on his face. Her son managed to hide it better than his father had, but all that nervousness had disappeared when the doors opened and she stepped through, looking as radiant as the sun. His eyes had been flitting around the room, but when she entered he only had eyes for her. And she truly was beautiful, in her Tyrell green wedding gown and golden roses braided into her hair. She only had eyes for him, and Catelyn believed she saw a smile on her face as she walked past. It was a strange contrast to how they’d been at dinner just two nights previously, where they’d only stolen glances between bites.

However confused she was by this new camaraderie between them, she was glad for it. Robb had been through too much already and he was barely sixteen. She’d been nearing nineteen when she’d married Ned, and was already a full-grown woman. _That wedding had been during wartime too_ , she thought sadly. She’d never wanted this for him. Robb was supposed to grow up happily, marry a pretty girl and father children, and in time become Lord of Winterfell. He shouldn’t be leading armies into battle and watching men die and wearing the crown at so young an age. Despite that, though, he seemed happy, if only for a moment. His smile was as wide as the sun as he placed the gray-and-white Stark cloak around her shoulders and the septon declared them to be one flesh, one heart, and one soul.

She stood and clapped as the various lords present cheered for their new King and Queen, a sign of young hope in these troubling times. Robb smiled at his lords bannermen, but she saw his eyes returned to her. She looked out over the lords as her husband did, but her eyes went to her family. Catelyn felt a pang of sadness, despite the joy; for Margaery Tyrell was no longer a Tyrell. The Starks were her family now. She thought of the day that she’d left Riverrun for good with a husband she barely knew and her own babe. In the near sixteen years since then she’d seen only her sister once. Those first months in Winterfell had been terrifying, and as she looked towards this young bride and queen she feared for her. This sweet, shy girl - was she prepared for what was to come?

Dacey Mormont came forward with the crown for the Queen in the North. It was a iron circlet, similar to her son’s crown but without the iron spikes. It was a crown for the Queen of Winter. Robb placed it upon her head, and she seemed born to it. She’d closed her eyes while Robb crowned her, and opened them as she faced the crowd once more, receiving enthusiastic shouts of ‘Queen in the North!’. She stood with her back straight, the Stark cloak wrapped around her, her eyes bright. She took Robb’s hand with all the grace of the queen she now was and smiled at him.

It wasn’t the smile she’d imagined, it was not a smile of a woman to her new husband - it was something different that Catelyn couldn’t place. She’d thought the two had only met once, but from that smile it appeared that they had not. Perhaps she was not so shy and sweet as she’d have everyone believe. She looked over at the Tyrells, where Lord Mace was grinning and cheering with unbridled enthusiasm as his daughter’s new title. What a strange contrast to her own reaction at Robb’s crowning. She’d mourned the loss of his boyhood, but he was cheering. Ser Garlan and Ser Loras were both clapping, but neither of them as excitedly as their father. Lady Olenna had her hands clasped together, with a pleased smile upon her old features.

Margaery Tyrell was born to queendom, she’d thought, or perhaps she’d been trained. _Come now, Catelyn, this is your son’s wedding, and you have spent it fretting over a girl who is probably just as terrified as you were_ , she thought. She may have practiced in looking like a queen, but did she know _how_ to be a queen? She fit the crown, yes, but could she fit the role? Did she understand exactly what it was that she had married? It wasn’t only Robb, it was the North, and even after seventeen years Catelyn did not completely understand what she had wed.

“You look too worried, Cat,” her uncle Brynden said during the feast, sitting down beside her. The young King and Queen were still receiving congratulations from their lords. Robb greeted each man with a friendly smile, as he always did, while Margaery greeted them all with dignity and poise. She spoke with each guest kindly and gently, and gave them her full attention. She saw the lords of the North swooning below her, winning them.

“I am worried.” She was always worried, from the moment she woke to the time she fell asleep.

“It’s a wedding. You should try to look a bit cheerful, or some golden fart might get the wrong idea,” he said.

“Uncle!” She scolded, but she couldn’t contain her amusement. “I am happy,” she tried to convince.

“I know you better than that, little Cat.”

Catelyn sighed. He did know her better. “I worry for them, for her. I don’t know if she has any idea what she’s getting into.”

“I’d give her more credit than that,” he said. “She’s already won half the North, and she hasn’t been Queen but a few hours.”

Yes, she’d captivated the Northern lords, but how couldn’t she? With her heart-shaped face and shy smile and sweet demeanor she’d entranced nearly everyone, including Robb. That is what made her worry so. She was sweet, yes, and probably smarter than she let on, but when winter came how would she fare? She was a child of the long summer, born in the greenlands. Could she weather the harsh northern winter?

“Try to enjoy this night,” he said, “and spend some time with your gooddaughter. She’ll need you more than she thinks.”

“I know she will,” Catelyn said as her son and gooddaughter finished greeting their lords and went to dance. Margaery’s arms were wrapped around Robb’s neck, both of them smiling at each other. “I just wish she didn’t have to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i meant to upload this yesterday and got a bit too busy, but i did promise a double update either this week or next. i know this is another short chapter but from here on out they're going to get a loooot longer. i think chapter ten totaled in at almost 8000? so yeah. i really hoped you enjoyed this chapter - catelyn is such an interesting character to write and i really hope i was able to capture her. please leave a kudos or a comment if you enjoyed! thank you~


	7. Margaery III

The wedding was a dream, the feast another world entirely. When she took his hand, when he’d smiled at her, she felt every doubt and worry melt away. _My husband_ , and the thought filled her with warmth. It was near addictive, being in his arms, and every time she left them, even for a moment, she had the strongest urge to run back to him. It was strange, both the nice kind of strange and the terrifying kind.

Even still, the dream had to end. The night grew late, and it was time for man and wife to retire. She was thankful there was no bedding, though she’d fully expected it. It was what had happened with Renly after all; but she was quickly learning that Robb was not Renly. She felt light as a cloud as Robb carried her to their bedchambers, laughing, her cheeks flushed with wine and her dress in disarray.

She sobered when the door closed, when they were finally left alone.

Margaery didn’t know why she was nervous. She’d slept with men before, men she liked and men she didn’t like, so sleeping with Robb shouldn’t be this nerve-wracking. Seven hells, the notion of sleeping with Renly hadn’t been this nerve-wracking! She reached for the wine.

“What is it?” She heard her new husband ask. He was more perceptive than she gave him credit for. It irked her.

She turned a smile on him, bright and dazzling and false. “Would you like a glass of wine?”

His eyebrows furrowed. “No,” he shook his head, “no thank you.”

The tension in the room was thick, and still growing. She drank, not knowing what or how she was supposed to feel.

Robb shifted, removing his crown and setting it on the table. She heard it clunk against the wood, realizing with a start how heavy it must be. It was an imposing crown, fully iron with swords decorating the top. It was a symbol of strength and power, meant to both inspire fear and devotion. She could not imagine anyone bearing it besides a Stark, a true King of Winter. Her own crown, still set upon her head, was a much different affair. It was an easier burden to bear, but it still carried weight. Once he’d placed the crown on her head she felt the weight of the responsibility, the history, and an unnatural feeling had come over her. It had abated quickly after, when she and Robb had turned to their people and other feelings had come over her, but now she felt the weight as if it’d just been placed on her head. She removed it, setting it on the dresser.

Neither of them seemed to want to speak first, but she didn’t think he was going to. “The sept was very pretty, didn’t you think?” _Gods, what an awful attempt at small talk. Keep it together, Margaery! It’s only your husband!_

His eyebrows furrowed again. “We’re married now,” he said, as if that explained everything. “You don’t have to talk to me as if we’d never met.”

Margaery wanted to shift, but kept herself still. “We have only just met.” She said, aimlessly.

“Yes, that’s true. But I’ve enjoyed these past three days, haven’t you?”

She partially hid behind her wine glass. “Indeed,” she said, giving him nothing.

Robb’s mouth twitched. “What was your marriage to Renly like?”

Margaery kept her face neutral, but she was surprised. Or maybe she wasn’t. It was perfectly natural to ask, but she’d never expected him to ask. He’d never even said his name to her before now.

“It was like any other political marriage, I suppose,” she said, trying to stop herself from downing the entire glass of wine right then. “I didn’t spend much time with him, in truth. He was usually busy with kingly duties.”

“He didn’t include you then?” He asked, and she remembered their first meeting. She had a sudden wish to go back in time and tell her past self to not do that, but she didn’t know why.

“No,” she said, not looking at him, “he did not.” She’d thought of Renly a few times in the past few days, only to compare him to Robb, but the two men were hardly comparable. Robb was everything Renly hadn’t been.

“Did you care for him at all?” Robb asked, and she looked at him in true surprise.

“He was my husband,” she said, guarded.

“But you never lay with him.” _Ah, there it is._

“I tried to do my duty as a wife.” She said, stiffening.

“Margaery, I know you’re not coming to this bed a maiden.”

She set down her glass. _Of course he knows._ “You presume too much.”

“Do I?” He raised his eyebrow, almost playfully. “Do I, truly?”

“What is it, then?” She asked, fighting to keep her temper in check, _knowing_ he shouldn’t get to her like this. “Are you keeping our marriage intact for the military alliance only? I’d rather you tell me now than surprise me later.”

Robb looked shocked. “Do you still believe I am only marrying you for a military alliance?” He said, tenderly, in soft disbelief.

Margaery took a step back. _Stop it_ , she wanted to say. “You haven’t answered my question.”

“Haven’t I?” They were dancing around each other, too unsure to say what they meant, and too stubborn to admit it even if they did know.

She hadn’t realized Robb was getting closer to her. “I don’t care if you’ve slept with other men, Margaery, and I didn’t marry you for your army. I could have married a Frey, or -” he paused, obviously affected by something, but swallowed it down. “They would have brought me an army just as you have, but you showed me that an army isn’t all that I need.” He looked away for a moment, bit his lip, and looked back to her with his piercing blue eyes. “I need a Queen. I need you.”

Margaery stilled. Two halves were battling inside her. On one side, the queen she was meant to become, ambitious and intelligent but hollow. On the other, the girl and the widow, both as one, searching only for love and peace, and fearfully afraid. Robb was extending his trust, offering her all the power the queen inside her dreamed of; but if there was anything she had learned from this war, it was that power almost never comes to those who deserve it. He didn’t know how dangerous his statement was. In truth, she was afraid. She did her best to hide it, for the betterment of her family and her reputation, but Robb Stark had made it grow. She cared for him, a fact she didn’t want to admit to herself, but she did. And here he was, offering the queendom she’d dreamed of since she was old enough to dream, and it filled her with terror. Queendom was precarious at best, especially in these times. In a moon’s time she may be Margaery Tyrell again, twice crowned and twice widowed. She wanted to rebuke him, to protect the girl and the widow, to remain alone and safe, but the queen inside her would not let her. The queen thrilled at his need, his vulnerability, things that she could exploit and seize power for herself.

She thought of the wedding, when she’d entered the sept and seen him standing there, as handsome as a knight from the songs, and her heart had soared. He was standing before her now, but it had all changed. Earlier she had been offering herself to him, and now he was offering himself to her. A new part of her emerged, one that she had never been able to explore before now. Her husband needed her, asked for her, was including her, and she must answer.

Margaery nodded. “I am your wife,” she said, every part of her fighting itself. “My place is by your side.”

Robb seemed relieved, as if she would honestly rebuke him, and yet also seemed surprised. He extended his hand and with only the slightest bit of hesitation she took it, signing herself over to him. She took his hand, and all the warring parts of her quieted.

His hand was callused, something that still surprised her every time. He pulled her into him and she instinctively wrapped her arms around him. He leaned down to touch his forehead to hers, their noses barely an inch apart. They both hesitated, still trying to figure the other out, but it was Robb who leaned in to kiss her.

His lips were soft, softer than she’d thought. He was good at it, too, and she suspected he wasn’t coming to the wedding bed a maiden either. He pulled at her more, and she let him, liking the feeling of him wrapped around her. His touch was gentle yet strong, and she let herself give in. Being with a man wasn’t uncomfortable, but every time it did require a certain part of pretending. She was surprised to find herself not pretending so much, and instead truly enjoying his touch. He broke away and began to fumble with her clothes, but he wasn’t so good at it.

“Here,” she said, stopping him by taking his hands in her own. “We’re not going to get anywhere with you doing _that_.” She let herself smile and he did the same, albeit much more shyly. She turned around and showed him the buttons and let him carefully undo each one, wondering at how she’d come to this point. She’d always been the one to quickly strip before sex if she took off her clothes at all, never liking to let someone even have that bit of power over her. Robb was gentle though, and soon the outer layer of her wedding gown pooled at her feet, leaving her in her corset and underskirts.

“What’s this?” He asked, pulling at the laces of her corset.

Margaery blinked in surprise. “I thought you’d been with women before?” She asked lightheartedly.

Robb shook his head in confusion. “No woman I’ve been with has worn . . . whatever this is.”

She grinned, a small laugh escaping her lips. “It’s a corset.”

“It looks uncomfortable,” he said, looking a bit disturbed. “Is this what women in the South do to keep their shape?”

“It certainly helps,” she said, not able to keep herself from laughing. “Have you honestly never seen one of these?”

“No! Northern women don’t _wear_ these!” He exclaimed. “How does it even work?”

That sent Margaery over the edge. “Here,” she laughed, reaching behind to the laces. She began pulling on them to loosen it. Robb, after observing for a moment, took over, his fingers quickly undoing the laces until he reached the top. She slid it off herself, her underskirts with it, leaving herself in nothing but her smallclothes.

She turned to face him, and she saw his eyes darken. She put her hands on his chest, saying, “Your turn,” and went to work on his doublet. It was simple work, and soon he stood bare before her, and she before him. He was strong, that was plain, but she could see the scars of battle on him. Before she had time to think of it, though, he pulled her to him and kissed her. He was a surprisingly soft kisser, and his touch was gentle as he wrapped his arms around her and took his new wife to bed.

Margaery had bedded several men before him, but they were all boys who fumbled their way through it to achieve their own climax. Most every time she’d had to finish herself off after they’d left. However, Robb was no boy. From the moment he kissed her, she knew he knew what he was doing. He made love to her quickly, but he was gentle, and she found herself enjoying it, which was a new experience for her.

She was positively glowing with pleasure when they both finished, and they collapsed onto the bed, both breathing heavily. She turned to her side, watching her husband get his bearings. He turned to look at her, red curls mussed wildly, a blush on his cheek. Margaery almost felt shy, and she suddenly felt terrified.

_I care for him_ , she realized with a start. _I care for him, and in a moon’s turn he may be dead._ A cold shiver went down her spine. Moments before when she’d been with him she felt safe, protected, cared for, something that no one outside her family had provided her with. But this was different, and in many more ways than just her newfound affection for him. Robb had offered his hand in friendship and inclusion the first time they’d met, and he’d shown such care for her since then. He treated her like she’d always dreamed she’d be treated by a husband, by a king, but she’d learned that kings died, especially now. Tomorrow, _tomorrow!_ Robb would leave her, fight a battle against Tywin Lannister, and may never return. What would happen to her then? She would be alone, most likely wed to Joffrey Baratheon, who seemed infinitely more horrible than the man at her side. She couldn’t afford to be this close to him, she couldn’t _afford_ to get attached.

She threw herself out of bed, covering herself with a robe and went to the door. She needed to get away from him, she needed to be alone, to protect herself.

“Margaery?” He called, so gentle and so worried, and she felt like she was betraying him. _You know this is better for you,_ a voice inside her said.

She bit her lip and turned around, crossing her arms across her chest. “You have a long day tomorrow. I’ll leave you to rest.” Her mind and body were both screaming at each other, her body wanting to stay, her mind telling her she must go and protect herself.

Robb stood, hastily putting on his own robe. “Margaery, wait.” Her hand was on the knob.

He looked down at his feet, seeming so young, before he looked back at her. “It’s our wedding night.”

“We’ve done what we needed to,” she replied, gesturing to the mussed sheets on the bed where they’d just made love.

“Aye, I suppose we have,” he said, shuffling. “But most women stay with their husbands on their wedding night.”

_I am not most women_ , she wanted to say. She plastered on a fake smile. “You should get your rest, Your Grace.”

He looked hurt, and her body screamed at her to fall into his arms. “I thought we were past that.”

Her hand tightened on the door knob. “You must leave early in the morning,” she said, though her reasons for leaving were disappearing by the second.

“You’re my wife,” he said. “Stay.”

“You’re leaving,” she accused, though it came off softer than she’d wanted.

“Not because I want to,” he squared his shoulders, obviously restraining himself. “I’d very much rather stay here, or go home, but I _can’t_.” His shoulders shook. “I have to stop Tywin Lannister, or we’re all finished. I have to win that battle, and I have to win this war, or my father and sisters are dead. I can’t, I can’t let that happen.”

He, who only moments ago had seemed as content as she’d seen any man, now carried the weight of the world on his shoulders once more, and it weighed heavily. This was a man who was on the verge of collapsing at any given moment, holding three kingdoms together by the strength of his name and character. She suddenly felt selfish, but it was rooted in her fear.

_What would my grandmother do?_ But her grandmother had never been in this situation before. She’d never cared for her husband, in fact, she knew she’d been relieved when he died. And her grandmother had never been a queen. What would her grandmother do? It was a pointless question in this situation.

_What must I do?_ She instead asked. She could not leave him now, no matter how much her mind told her she must protect herself. It hurt to care for him, but she would be forsaking her duty as his wife if she left him now. She took in a deep breath.

“You will defeat Tywin,” she said with the conviction that both of them needed. “And you will return, and we will go to King’s Landing and get your family back.”

His head had been bowed in defeat, but he now looked at her with those deep blue eyes. He looked at her for a long time, and she could see him thinking, until at last he relaxed. “You’ll stay?”

Margaery still hesitated for a moment, knowing that this was it; this was the moment that would define their marriage. She bit her lip. The idealistic young girl from Highgarden begged her to take his hand; the queen told her that she was giving up her power; the widow was scared and knew nothing good could come of this, but the wife straightened her shoulders and reached for him; and so she sealed her fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for reading! i'm sure some of y'all were expecting a bit more sexy times but i've never been super into writing sex scenes - however, there will be some more involved scenes later on. for this chapter i wanted to focus on margaery's inner turmoil and coming to terms with new emotions and a new position. this chapter is really what i meant when i said i'd be doing margaery's character a bit differently. i hope you enjoyed! if you did, please consider leaving a kudos or a comment :D


	8. Robb IV (Interlude)

Robb had always imagined what marriage would be like. He knew he would be married, as the heir to a great house, but thinking about being married and actually being married were two very separate things. His parents had a good marriage, a happy marriage, and he’d grown up watching their love. They were kind and considerate, they shared knowing glances across rooms, they stood next to each other like it was the only place they wanted to be in the world. Their love was sturdy, and that’s what he’d come to expect. Margaery Tyrell was not sturdy. If his parents’ marriage was a rock, his own was shaping up to be an avalanche. 

They’d made love again after she’d come back, though not quite as desperately or as clumsily as it’d been the first time. He was discovering more and more with every moment that there was far more to his new wife than she let on. When he’d thought about marriage he’d never actually thought what his wife would be like. He knew a marriage like his parents didn’t come so often, but he’d hoped to have a pleasant friendship with his wife, if nothing more. He certainly hadn’t expected her.

She was nestled against him, her head on his shoulder and her leg wrapped around his.  _ It must be after midnight _ , he thought as he looked from the window to his new wife. She was so small. He wondered at how she could hold such passion in her little frame. It made him smile. She’d fallen asleep, he soon noticed, but sleep would not come to him, no matter how he tried. 

He was now a man wed. The thought was somewhat strange, and not just because he now shared his bed with someone. He had wed the Reach itself, and the fifty thousand men that brought. He had wed the swift end to this war, if he could only get through it. Tomorrow he would ride out with the combined forces of the North and the Reach, but there was still so much to do after this looming battle; if he even won it, and that was a big ‘if’. Tywin Lannister was four times his age, and a much more experienced commander. Defeating him would not be easy, if it was even possible. Was he kidding himself in believing he, a sixteen-year-old boy king, could go up against the most powerful man in Westeros and win? Was all of this for naught? Was he dooming thousands of men, not to mention three kingdoms? 

Margaery stirred briefly next to him, but she didn’t wake. He sighed. He had been able to find brief comfort in his wife, who was ever a puzzle and an interesting challenge. She was both open and reserved; friendly and fiery; soft and hard. He’d never met a woman like her; but she was exactly what he needed.

He had placed the crown on her head in the sept and she had instantly straightened, bearing the weight with ease. He had taken her hand and walked out among his people, and she had walked out beside him with grace and dignity. She greeted the bannermen with smiles and warmth and they had all fallen in love with her, their new queen. It was true; she was every inch a queen, from her delicate brow down to the way she walked. She had captivated him, intrigued him, stayed with him.

He hadn’t realized how badly he’d needed to get something out until tonight, when they’d confronted each other. If she hadn’t stayed he didn’t know what he would have done. It was strange, becoming somewhat dependent in just a few days’ time; but it didn’t scare him. It was welcome, in fact, to have someone who was both smart and capable but also his. Before her he had been utterly alone, but now he had someone to share the burden with. Their marriage may not be simple, but neither was the crown.

He rested his head against hers, sighing, and finally drifted off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i planned to update ch8 & ch9 at the same time, but i'm still editing ch9 and i felt bad that i hadn't updated in a while. sorry for the short chapter, but i really wanted to include a robb pov since the next couple chapters are marg heavy. thank you all so much for reading, and please leave a kudos or a comment if you enjoyed!


	9. Margaery IV

That night she dreamed of Winterfell. She dreamed of a tall gray castle, as ancient as the earth, but filled with warmth and laughter and light. The winters were always cold, but she knew he would keep her warm.

Dawn came too soon. She awoke to the morning light gently glowing, soft and warm. She stirred slightly, stretching as much as she could without disturbing him, feeling the pleasant dull ache between her thighs. She could feel him under her, breathing soft and low, his beard tickling her. She lifted her head to look at him. She was struck once again by the odd fondness she’d so quickly gained for him, this strange, troubled, strong king who was dozing peacefully. He didn’t look a king in his sleep, no, he was just a boy, teetering on the edge of manhood. She saw the stubble on his chin, the delicate corners of his mouth, the mole of his upper left cheek, the long eyelashes, haze of auburn curls, the tiny scar over his eyebrow. She felt pleasantly warm.

He stirred under her, awaking, and she soon found herself eye-to-eye with him; brilliant blue and doe brown.

“Morning,” he said, his voice low and gruff, but he seemed tired.

“Morning,” she replied, resting her head against his chest. She wanted to stay in this moment for as long as she could. 

“How long have you been awake?” He asked, arm curling around her.

“Not too long.” She felt comfortable and did not want to move. They stayed in silence for a few moments. “Did you sleep well?”

He replied a moment later. “Aye, well enough.” She never thought she’d be having a simple conversation with someone like this, in the peaceful morning light. She’d never thought herself the domestic type, and she still didn’t think she was, but she found herself enjoying this.

It was disrupted all too soon. “Your Graces?”

“One moment, Dacey,” Robb replied, then lowered his voice to speak to her. “I’m afraid we must get up and face the day.”

“It seems that way,” she said ruefully. She moved off of him and reached for her robe. She’d just tied it on when Robb opened the door.

“Good morning, Your Grace,” she first nodded to Robb and then to her, “Your Grace.” Dacey Mormont said it differently than the Reach lords had when Renly had named her queen. They were the same words, but the inflection was much different. It felt more real. “How was your night?”

Robb cracked a smile, and Dacey did the same. “Perhaps I should ask how yours was, since you’re wearing the same clothes you wore yesterday.”

They looked at each other for a moment until they burst into laughter. They quickly sombered up, though, and Robb gestured for her to sit down at the table. Margaery had seen Dacey Mormont the day before at the wedding, but she hadn’t realized how tall and commanding she was. She stood near six feet, and though she was lithe Margaery could tell she was incredibly strong. She carried herself like a warrior, but her face was rather comely. 

“The men are starting to rouse; they should be ready to march within two hours.” She lowered her voice while Margaery took a brush to her hair. “Tell me, how do you feel?”

Robb took a long moment to respond. “Don’t worry for me, Dacey.” He stood. “Let me break my fast and I’ll meet the lords out in the courtyard before we march.” It was Dacey’s turn to hesitate, probably wanting to say more, but she nodded and left. He moved his shoulders, as if rolling around the weight on them, and sat back down in the chair. Margaery put the brush down and turned to face him. 

“You’re worried for the battle,” she said, the comfort and warmth gone. It was back to war.

“We will either win or lose,” he replied without emotion. “That is war.” She’d noticed how he toed the line between being kingly and being friendly with the men he led, but surely she was different? But then again, she’d been taught to get into a man’s head for her own purposes, not to carry their emotional burdens.

“Yes, but there is some strategy to it if I’m not mistaken.”

“Aye, of course there’s strategy to it, but at the end it comes down to the men fighting and dying on that field. I have gone as far as I can on strategy and tact, but men are still going to die. I can only hope that it’s more theirs than ours.”

“Is that what bothers you? Men dying?” That was the way of war. 

Robb finally turned to her, eyes piercing. “Should it not?”

“Of course it should, but this war isn’t about those men. It’s about you and and the Lannisters. Tywin is whom you have to defeat.”

“By your account I should just march into Tywin’s camp and challenge him.” His brow was creased in anger, but Margaery was not afraid.

“You’re focusing on the smaller picture. It is Tywin at the head of this army, and it is Tywin you have to defeat.”

“Don’t you think I know that?”

“Robb, you say the time for strategy is over, but isn’t it just beginning? You have your plan, yes, but that plan may have to change. You have to outsmart Tywin if you have any hope of defeating him.”

“Any hope? I’m relying upon my uncle to lure him far enough into the Riverlands so that my army  _ might  _ trap him. This entire plan is built on hope, and if Edmure can’t keep him where he needs to then Tywin gets to the Rock and we have  _ nothing _ . There isn’t anything more I can do than march my army west and  _ hope _ that Tywin and Edmure are where they’re supposed to be.”

“That’s an awful plan.”

Robb stood. “And what would you have me do? Do they teach southern ladies warfare as well as sewing?”

“Don’t you dare patronize me, Robb Stark, I’m trying to  _ help _ you!” Her eyes flashed, and she stood angrily.

“I don’t need  _ you  _ to tell me how to defeat Tywin Lannister!”

“It seems you do, since you barely have a plan yourself! Do you honestly think this will work, that Tywin is fool enough to be ‘chased’ by Edmure?”

“I DON’T HAVE ANYTHING ELSE!”

Her husband’s shout reverberated throughout the room, but she was not afraid. Margaery was getting ready to shout something at him, to  _ show _ him that he was yelling at the wrong person, to make him see  _ sense _ , but there was a knock at the door.

“Your Graces?” A timid voice said, having no doubt heard the shouting. “I have food for you.”

Robb stepped away from her. “Enter,” he called. The maid scurried in and set the tray down before disappearing through the door. She avoided looking at him, out of both shame and anger, but heard him sit down and begin to eat. 

“Come and eat,” he said at last. “I know you’re hungry.” As if on cue, her stomach growled. She reluctantly made her way to the table and sat, but paused a minute before beginning to eat.  _ I should be more supportive, as his wife. But, gods, there’s no surety that this plan will work. _ She felt widowhood nag at her once again.

“I don’t want to argue with you,” he said. Neither did she, not really. The anger had gone out of her when the maid had knocked. “But at this point there’s not much more planning I can do until I meet him on the field.”

“I understand,” she conceded. “But when you return I’d like to sit in on these war councils.”

She looked up at him, and there was a glint in his eye. “Very well, my lady.”

Her nose twitched. “Are you laughing at me?”

He shook his head. “No, no, just . . . that was very Northern of you.”

She looked at him and glanced down at her food, and then back at him. “I am Queen in the North, am I not?” She said it with only the slightest hint of playfulness.

“Aye,” he said, with pride. She allowed herself the smallest of smiles as she took a bite of her breakfast. They ate in silence for the briefest of moments.

She looked up at him, her smile having dipped into a frown. “You believe this plan will work?”

He paused for a moment, as if he wanted to shrug her off. He rested his hands in his lap and sat back in his chair. “I believe this plan has the highest chance of success. Nothing is certain in war.”

She straightened her shoulders and leaned back in the chair. “That’s the only certainty, I suppose.”

They both paused and looked at each other before beginning to laugh. However, it died quickly. But, at least their own fatalism was in good company. They finished eating in relative silence, the weight of the morning becoming a heavier and heavier burden as the sun rose higher and higher into the sky. 

The dress the maids had laid out for her was foreign to her, but she supposed this is what Riverlanders wore.  _ Or Northern queens _ , she thought. It was a light river blue embroidered with white roses. The neckline was a bit more conservative than what she usually wore, and the sleeves were long and hanging in the Northern style. She hadn’t seen it before, and wondered who had made it. A strange feeling ran through her.  _ I am truly Queen in the North now. I have duties, responsibilities.  _ This wasn’t like being Renly’s queen; she’d somehow always known that Renly was never going to sit the Iron Throne, but Robb was different. He would not want to sit there, that she knew, but as soon as this war was won he’d return to Winterfell and be the King in the North, and she his Queen. How so very strange, and so very right. 

And yet, she could not rest easy with the thought. “How many men are marching with you?”

Robb looked up at her from across the room. “You ask an awful lot of questions,” he said, with a glint in his eye. She ignored it.

“How many men does Tywin have?”

“Such a young girl shouldn’t have so many worry lines,” he commented, once again deflecting. 

She crossed her arms. He smiled.

“You are quite the formidable woman, Margaery Tyrell,” he said with a smile, but it did not quite manage to reach his eyes.

She took a deep breath. “You will win this battle, Robb Stark.”

He blinked slowly. “Aye,” he nodded. 

Both knew the stakes, and both knew that in a moon’s turn their lives may be wholly different, but for now it was only them, and nothing had changed yet. She smiled softly. She went to him, and for a moment they held each other; a moment all too brief. 

Robb’s squire, one of the Blackwood boys, came and helped him into his armor, but she noticed he didn’t put the crown on.  _ Funny. Renly always wore his crown. _ But Robb didn’t need to; he had the respect and he was beginning to have the look of a king. Renly had had a need to prove that he was a king; Robb knew.

Margaery had her own maids, new ones that is, come in and do her hair in the Northern style and placed her simple circlet crown upon her head. Unlike her husband, she kept it. She still had something to prove. 

Once that was finished, she walked with her husband out to the courtyard where the lords were waiting. Loras was standing off to the side, but he didn’t hold her attention. It was all on these lords. They were all dressed for war, each shining in their pride. The Northern lords were different, though. Their armor wasn’t elaborate, it didn’t shine; in fact, it was obvious that their armor had been in use. There were dents, holes, patched tears. The situation was becoming more and more real the longer she looked.

Robb said farewell to his mother first. The woman stood tall and strong, and it was obvious she’d done this before. Their goodbye was quick but heartfelt, and she felt a strange sense of longing. Not for them, but for their relationship. It was clear how much they valued each other.

He came to her next, and both knew just how many eyes were watching them. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, lingering a moment longer than he needed to, and bid her farewell.

She stood like a pillar as he got on his horse and led his men through the gates of Riverrun. She stood until every man had left the courtyard, leaving only her and Catelyn.

“Come, my dear,” Catelyn said, taking her arm. “We have work to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have fought with this chapter for days and i had to publish it before i went mad (which is a bit of a recurring theme with me and this fic lmao) i hope you enjoyed, and please leave a kudos or a comment if you did!


	10. Margaery V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We have work to do,” Catelyn Stark had said, and she had meant it.

“We have work to do,” Catelyn Stark had said, and she had meant it. From dawn till dusk her goodmother had her on her feet, talking to lords and stewards and common folk, to wounded soldiers and to women who had followed their men from as far as Last Hearth.

“When I first came to Winterfell, the hardest part was learning its people. Northerners are much different even from Riverlands folk, but I’m sure it must be even harder for you. The solution, I’ve found, is that they must see you. Once they see you, they will love you,” Lady Catelyn said. Margaery thought her goodmother and grandmother were eerily similar in that moment, though their experiences had been directly opposite. Even still, Lady Catelyn could pinpoint her exact fears and worries about fitting in with her husband’s people, and she soothed those anxieties with a gentle mother’s touch. 

Since Lord Hoster’s death and her brother’s absence, Lady Catelyn was the de facto Lady of Riverrun. The Blackfish, a blunt man whom Margaery hadn’t decided whether she liked or not, had gone with Robb; though, her goodmother insinuated she would still be in charge even if he was here. Margaery had never been the lady of a castle before, since she’d expected to be in the Red Keep before long when she was married to Renly. There’d been no real pressure to run a household in the army camp. Her own naivety was only hidden by her ability to learn quickly. But she did learn; learned that you had to separate food for the army and food for the household, that men would fight, no matter if they were headed to battle or not, that tents and camps had to stay clean to fight off disease. Margaery had always been good at giving money to the orphanages outside Highgarden and spending an afternoon with the children there, but this was different. These people weren’t children. The few hundred men left behind to defend the castle had left their family, their home, and marched hundreds of miles to fight for their king. Each bowed when she passed, murmuring “Your Grace” and “my Queen” as she passed. She’d heard her husband was open and friendly with his men and his lords; they knew him. But they did not know her, and she did not know them.

And because she did not know, she watched. It was the women that interested her. Most were young, within a few years of herself. Some were recently married, and had traveled hundreds of miles to stay with their husband. Some were the fifth, sixth, seventh child and could find more food in an army camp than at their own dinner table. They worked all day - cooking, cleaning, doing laundry. In Renly’s camp there’d been few women; for most of the soldiers home was perhaps a week’s ride away at most. For the women here, it was either stay in the north and wonder whether winter or their man would greet them first. The biggest difference she’d found between the two camps was that the Northerners were full of so much  _ love _ . She saw it in every glance between husband and wife, every smile between friends, at every meal. She saw it in the way a gruff Northern soldier’s eyes would soften at the sight of his woman; how the bowl would pass around the table twice to make sure everyone got their share; heard it in the laugh of a girl as her man swept her off her feet. They were all one people, no matter what part of the North they may have come from. 

They gave Margaery blessings and flowers and trinkets, smiles and curtseys and bows. They did it because she was their Queen, to gain favor with her she supposed, and she took each trinket and blessing and flower with a smile, but it was hard to accept. She was not one of them, not some pretty camp follower who laughed and drank and sang and loved. She took everything they gave her back to her rooms, as a sign of appreciation from monarch to subject. Slowly, her empty rooms filled. 

“Northerners have always been distrusting of outsiders,” her goodmother said as they walked through the camp, five days after the army had left, “but you seem to have won their hearts.”

Margaery smiled, her heart heavy. “It is easy to love good people.”  _ And it is easy for them to love a pretty young queen _ .

“When I was younger I thought all Northerners were half-savage, little better than wildlings. Gods know Brandon was half-savage when I met him, and it seemed to only confirm the rumors I’d heard. Ned, though, was different. The ‘Quiet Wolf’ they called him. It’s very unnerving as a young bride if your husband will hardly speak to you, and I began to think that perhaps he was more savage than all the rest.”

Margaery cracked a smile. Lady Catelyn said very little about her husband. “I thought the same about Northerners. My older brothers always told me stories about the evil creatures that lurked in the North, direwolves and ice spiders and White Walkers, and I thought ‘how could civilized people live in such a place?’ I reasoned they must all be half-savage, to live with such nightmares.”

She heard Loras, her guard, give a small snort from behind her. Lady Catelyn continued, “And yet for all of these stories, Northerners are the most caring people I’ve met. Sometimes they’re a bit backward in their ways, and they are fierce, but nowhere else in the Seven Kingdoms could I imagine a woman traveling five hundred miles to be with her man.”

Margaery could only smile, her mind someplace else.

 

* * *

 

When not among the common folk, Margaery spent her days mostly with her goodmother, poring over papers and drawing up sums with the steward. It was hard work, but Margaery found herself surprisingly well-suited for it. She’d always had a head for numbers. It was the people she didn’t know. She could talk about the lineages for every house in nearly every kingdom in the South, but the North had always largely remained a mystery to her. “All you need to know of the North is that the Starks have ruled it for eight thousand years, and will continue to rule it long after you and I have vanished from the world,” her grandmother had said. Neither of them had predicted that it was what she’d be Queen of someday.

But, she was Queen of all of it, and she had to learn more. In between looking over raven scrolls and drawing up sums with the steward, not to mention her time with her grandmother, she found some time to ask Lady Catelyn to teach her about just who she was ruling over. She knew the names of the major houses and their lords, but she needed to know more. For half an hour each morning and an hour at night over candlelight Catelyn Stark drew up family lineages, telling of feuds and friendships, likes and dislikes, marriages and children for each house in the North and the Riverlands. She learned of Glovers and Hornwoods, Brackens and Blackwoods, Umbers and Karstarks. As the days passed and she learned she began to realize just how  _ large _ the North was. The Reach was the second largest of the kingdoms, but the North was over three times its size. The task was daunting, but if Catelyn Tully could do it so could Margaery Tyrell. She spent so much time learning the land she’d wed that she scarcely had time to think of the  _ man _ she’d wed. Perhaps that was Lady Catelyn’s intent.

Despite the fact her goodmother often pushed her to the point of exhaustion, there were few women she could say she respected more. Catelyn Stark was a force of nature. She was hardy and firm and she was not afraid to speak her mind; and yet, she did not forgo her femininity for her power. Her strength came from her womanhood, from the love she bore for her husband, her children, and the land she had loved them on. She lived in fear for her husband and daughters’ lives, for her son and his war, for her two boys left alone in Winterfell, but she bore that burden in silence. She did not let it affect what needed to be done. She was hardy, yes, but her motherly nature showed through in everything she said and did; especially when it came to her new gooddaughter. At times she seemed more like a mother than her own. Alerie Hightower had never neglected her daughter, but it was plain which matriarch Margaery had belonged to, and her grandmother was far from the motherly sort.

Lady Catelyn often spoke of Winterfell, and always with a profound sense of longing. Riverrun had been her home for many years, she said, but it was Winterfell where she’d loved her husband and raised her children. She spoke of its warm gray walls, and explained that the castle lay atop a natural hot spring, and that pipes carried the heat so that every part of the castle was warm. She spoke of it so lovingly, so longingly, that Margaery wondered if she would ever prefer the cold North rather than the lush green gardens of her home. The North was an old place; their people carried ancient blood in their veins. She worried if she would ever fit in, but thoughts like that were girl’s thoughts; she was a Queen. She would adapt. And yet the thought pricked at her.

Margaery spent her days mixing with highborn lords and ladies and camp followers alike. There were many a lord’s daughter who had been sent to Riverrun since their own lands and castles had not remained safe enough for them. After spending her days being the Queen in the North and of the Trident, it was nice to simply be around girls again. But these girls were not her Highgarden ladies; most of them were little girls who had been forced out of their home because of war. They needed a Queen, too.

The first time she had assembled them - for midday tea - they had all come looking their best, but most seemed apprehensive at best, or in too much awe to say anything to her. Many of these girls had scarce left their lands before coming to Riverrun, and now they were separated from their families; every experience was a new experience. She soothed them with kind words and gentle smiles, and soon they reciprocated. They were a sweet bunch, though surprisingly naive for girls who had been forced to flee their castles. She almost envied their naivety, especially when one of the younger girls would lead them in prayer for their fathers and brothers out fighting. They still believed war to be glorious and honorable; that their brothers and fathers were being slaughtered by the will of the gods. Margaery may not have known warfare, she may have never seen a battle, but she knew that the gods were not the reason good men were dying. But that was not something she would share with her ladies.

She spent an hour with them each day, just after the midday meal. Her rooms at Riverrun were spacious and fit for entertaining. There were almost a dozen in total, ranging in age from seven to seventeen, from little Pauline Pemford to Marianne Harlton. There were two Bracken daughters and a Blackwood, but they didn’t seem to embody the distaste for each other’s house as she thought they would. Along with them was Jeyne Goodbrook, a sweet-faced girl of seven; Eleanor Mooton, Carellen Smallwood, Bethany Keath, and Elissa Deddings. Of all of them, Marianne was by far her favorite. She was the eldest, only a year older than Margaery. All of the other girls were between the ages of seven and fourteen and just that - girls. Though she was the only married woman in the group, it was nice to have someone close to her own age. Elinor’s absence was felt more and more each day, but this Harlton girl presented something new.

Finally, at one of the meetings of the ‘queen’s circle’, as they had been dubbed, Margaery turned the conversation from her handsome young king over to the Harlton lady.

“Enough of my husband, ladies.” She paused to let them giggle before turning to the brown-haired woman opposite her. “So, tell me, Lady Marianne, how is it that you are unwed?”

The corner of a full pink mouth turned up. “I’m afraid I’m rather dull, my Queen,” she said, in a tone that suggested otherwise.

“Girls, what do you say? Is Lady Marianne truly dull?” The girls giggled and shook their heads. Lady Marianne’s eyes flashed at her; she sighed dramatically and set down her sewing.

“If you are snoozing by the end of this story don’t blame me,” she began, with a pointed look at Margaery. “My uncle is without wife and without children, and an only niece of an heirless lord will always attract suitors. I have been courted by many men, Your Grace, from men of the westerlands, riverlands, and the Vale, from Crakehalls to Royces to Freys. Tall men, short men, hairy men, bald men, gentle men, rough men, ugly men, pretty men. I have known them all. If I’m being entirely honest with you, Your Grace, it is simply because I have not found a worthy enough man.” She said it with a small smile, waiting for Margaery to make the next move.

“I didn’t think that was dull at all, Lady Marianne,” she replied. “I’m sure you’ll find someone worthy of you.” Though Margaery had an inkling that it was not a man Marianne was looking for. 

Marianne Harlton was very pretty, with lovely green eyes and a rough pink mouth. She had a look in her eye that Margaery could grow fond of, if given the chance. She seemed sweet and soft in the beginning, but there was an edge about her, something that both unsettled Margaery and excited her. Perhaps in another life, when there wasn’t a husband and a war and a queendom. Still, she wanted this woman close to her. When she had time, she thought.

And she found she had very little time. When not with Lady Catelyn or her queen’s circle, Margaery spent her spare hours with her grandmother, which was its own unique experience. 

“Stannis Baratheon is preparing to depart Dragonstone to take King’s Landing,” her grandmother said one afternoon at tea.

Margaery wasn’t surprised, though she’d barely thought of Stannis since Renly’s death. “Does he have the ships? The men?” 

“Many of the Stormlords have flocked to him, but no. He should not be underestimated, however. He did manage to hold Storm’s End against your fool of a father for nearly a year.”

“King’s Landing is not Storm’s End, and this time Stannis is on the offensive,” Margaery pointed out. 

“So what do you think, my dear? Will he succeed, and we will have a new King?”

Her grandmother did love to test her. “He’ll fail.”

“Why?”

“Stannis cannot inspire his men, and he follows a strange god. Even if he does take the city, his reign will be short for both of those reasons.”

Her grandmother gave a ghost of a smile, crinkles appearing around her eyes. “I think the same. Stannis may live, but if he does not I’m sure that mad wife of his will have their daughter crowned.”

Margaery tried to remember the name. “Shireen? The one with greyscale, yes? She will not be Queen. Not for long, anyway.”

“No, I think not. Men will never follow a girl, much less a disfigured one.”

“What of the Stormlands then, if Stannis is defeated?” 

“There are some houses that may come to our side, with persuasion,” Olenna said, “but I fear many may flock to Cersei, if only for the fact the king bears the Baratheon name.”

“Cersei’s brood are all bastards, though. According to Stannis, at least.”

“Not everyone will believe that. There are mixed opinions in the Stormlands. Either way, we must sway them to our side. When your husband takes the capital everything will go much more smoothly if we have more allies.”

“Besides the Stormlands, what is left? The Vale?” Her husband’s kin still had not entered the fray.

Olenna shook her head. “Lysa Arryn is mad and her son is weak. No, she’ll stay secluded in the Eyrie, and so will all her knights.”

“That leaves only the Iron Islands and Dorne, neither of which are likely to join with us.”  _ Still, the combined forces of the Starks, Tyrells and Tullys should be sufficient to take King’s Landing _ .

“Balon Greyjoy is an old man. He has no love for the Starks, and will not stir his ships for us. Nor for Cersei, if we’re lucky.”

“And that only leaves Dorne,” Margaery thought peculiarly. “But Prince Doran’s son is betrothed to Princess Myrcella.”

Olenna shook her head. “At best, Myrcella is there as a ward; at worst, she is a hostage.”

“What are you saying, that Doran is a turncloak?” Even she, trained to anticipate every outcome, was in disbelief. 

“I am saying nothing,” her grandmother said. “Only that his son’s betrothed is a bastard. While the Dornish will lie with anyone and anything, they will not marry them."

“Do you believe Prince Doran will switch sides?”

“Doran has never had any side but his own. He will do what he believes is best for Dorne. I’m sure he has his own grand plan in the works, but I have been wondering if he could be persuaded to join our forces.”

“What, Tyrells and Martells fighting alongside one another?”  _ I fear you’re losing your touch, Grandmother _ was left unsaid.

“Doran does not want to fight for Joffrey, and he holds his sister. He has the upper hand, if only he would exercise it. Sometimes, my dear, you must look for alliances in strange places. Your husband will have no easy time taking King’s Landing - it may be easier if we ally with Dorne and have the Princess Myrcella when he marches.”

Margaery thought for a moment. “Cersei will not be so eager to destroy if her daughter is in the hands of the enemy. You’re proposing a hostage situation; Jaime and Myrcella for the Starks.”

Her grandmother nodded, pleased. “When your husband returns I would suggest a diplomatic mission to Dorne.”  _ When. _

“Yes, Grandmother.”  _ Who could imagine the North fighting alongside the Riverlands, the Reach and Dorne? An alliance that would stretch from the Wall to the Salt Shore. It’s an interesting notion. _

“There has been no news from Robb?” Olenna pried. It had been little more than a week since he’d left Riverrun.

Margaery shook her head. “Just news that he is alive, and that his battle plan is working so far.”

Olenna  _ hmmed _ . “You like this one, don’t you?”

“He is my husband,” Margaery said neutrally. 

“Come now child, I know you better. Tell me true, is he a good husband?”

“He has treated me well,” she said. Margaery had told no one of those few precious moments that they had, nor what they had meant to her. That was between her and Robb. 

“And your moonblood?”

Margaery cast her eyes down. “It came this morning.”

“You need to get yourself an heir, and quickly. We cannot have the same situation with Renly happen again here.”

“It won’t,” she assured. “Robb is not Renly.”  _ He certainly isn’t _ , she thought, equal parts pleasure and melancholy.

“You’ve done well with these Riverlands ladies,” Olenna said, moving onto the next order of business. “They’ll return to their fathers and babble about how well their Queen has treated them and you will be loved.”

Margaery smiled, grateful for the distraction. It was an easy accomplishment, compared to others. The girls were not her Highgarden ladies, but they were sweet.

Her grandmother continued, as if she could read her mind. “Soon we’ll get your other ladies here. You need proper ladies, ones that know you.”

Margaery couldn’t help but to agree. For now, though, she would settle with the company of these girls, and Marianne Harlton’s sly smile.

Loras had noticed, as of course Loras had noticed. He was dining with her one evening, almost a fortnight after Robb had left Riverrun, and a week after she had first gathered her queen’s circle. On the Robb front, there was little and less news. All she knew was that her husband was not dead, but she did not know where he was or if he had engaged Tywin in battle or anything at all, really. It preyed on her, but she remained too busy to think of it. What she preferred to think about were the people near her, namely, Marianne. And Loras had noticed.

“You seem to enjoy your little ‘queen’s circle,” he began one night after supper, while they were sharing a flagon of wine. “You’re spending more and more time with them each day.”

“A Queen must make time for her subjects,” she replied, hiding behind her glass.

“Yes, I’ve noticed,” he said a tad sharply. “I see you go out everyday among these people and I - I don’t trust them.”

An eyebrow raised, but she did not meet his gaze. “Why’s that?”

“I - they’re - something’s off about them. They-they’re not like Renly’s camp. And yet you open your arms for all of them.” He accused, downing another gulp of wine.

“I’m their Queen, Loras. I have to be nice to them.”  _ He’s drunk too much _ . 

“I don’t trust Robb, either,” he blurted, before she’d finished her sentence. “Nice to them? I’d say you’re being more than nice. Like your little queen’s circle, of course you’re just there to be  _ nice _ to them.”

“Loras, I’m tired. What is it exactly you’re accusing me of?” She said, pulling the flagon out of Loras’ reach.

“If you’re going to be sleeping with every peasant and noblewoman you can find at least be discreet about it.”

She bit back a gasp. Loras had never,  _ never _ spoken to her like that. Never blatantly accused her of something so harshly. Deep in her mind, she knew these words were just a symptom of a deeper problem and it didn’t have anything to do with her. The wine she’d drank, however, thought differently. The heat in her stomach burned hotter.

“Like you were discreet with Renly?” she said, damning the consequences.

Loras looked at her with bloodshot eyes. “Don’t.”

“I never did anything but support you with Renly. I protected you, I lied for you, I kept you from harm when other men called you his killer. Don’t you  _ dare _ come in here and blame me for the same exact thing you did.”

“The same thing I did? I wasn’t with him for a quick fuck, Marga-”

“A quick fuck? Is that really what you think I’m doing?”

“It almost makes me feel bad for Robb. The moment he’s off to war you’re fucking every-

“Get out!” She stood, anger burning. “I’m not dealing with this, get OUT!” Loras looked startled, and he fled, slamming the door behind him with a thunderous  _ thud _ .

Margaery stood for a moment, looking at the door. She could handle lying and blaming and accusations, but not from her brother. She hadn’t even lain with anyone since Robb. 

She collapsed back in the chair, her hand over her eyes. Is that what the rest of the North saw her as? A Southern whore? She sighed. Loras had only said what he’d said because of grief, she knew that. She knew it hadn’t been easy for him. Renly had been his great love, the man he thought he’d stand behind forever. He would’ve died for him in a heartbeat, and gone to the ends of the earth for him. No one gets over that in just a couple of months.

When she finally stood again she thought she might go and find him, but it was late and she had nothing to say. A handmaiden dressed her for bed, but she looked at that big, cold bed, and she could not bear to be alone one more night. 

She gave a quick request to a handmaiden, who went scurrying off. Ten minutes later, there was a knock at her door, and then a smooth voice saying, “Your Grace?”

Margaery pulled her robe around her. “Come in, Lady Marianne.”

Gods, she truly was beautiful, with those playful green eyes and button nose and dark silken hair that fell to her waist. 

“You’re alone, Your Grace,” she observed, a hidden intent in her eyes as she looked around the room before settling back on Margaery. 

“Does that bother you?” She asked confidently, but now that she was in front of her reality began to set in. 

Marianne gave a small smile. “Not in the slightest, Your Grace. How may I serve you?”

Half a dozen different things flashed through her mind. The anger that had burned in her moments before had withered to a dull ember of hurt. She hadn’t been alone with someone like this since Robb had left. She sighed quietly. What she wanted was Elinor. She wanted a friend. She wanted Robb. 

She put on a small smile. “The nights are so much colder here than in Highgarden. I find they’re much warmer with some companionship.”

Marianne gave a sweet smile. “I’m honored that you chose me. Perhaps I could pour us some wine?”

Marianne poured a glass for each of them and they sat on the couches. “Riverrun must be quite a change from Highgarden,” she began easily. “And with a new position at that. I know that whenever I was left in charge of Castlewood it grew awfully lonely.”

“You had few companions at Castlewood?” Margaery asked, keeping the wine glass in her hand but not taking a drink. 

“I had no companions, Your Grace. It is hard to form friendships when everyone near you is your subject.” She said with a pointed look.

“Indeed.” Margaery mused. “It must be especially difficult, being the heir. Certain things are expected.”

Marianne nodded with the slightest hint of exasperation. “When I was younger I would beg my uncle to take me with him when he went to other castles, to Riverrun, even to King’s Landing once. But he always left me at home. Even with suitors, they would always come to me.”

“And not a single one of these suitors lasted the course?”

Marianne almost looked pleased when she said, “Not a single one.”

Margaery smiled. “Do you prefer only women, then?”

Marianne kept her face guarded. 

“Fear not, my lady. We are lenient about such things in Highgarden.”

“And we are less lenient in the Riverlands,” she said it lightly, but poignantly. “It is my duty to wed and make heirs, but that is not my path. I find it no great burden to be an old maid.”

Margaery wondered if that would be simpler. Living to old age, alone with her ladies, but she banished the thought. She wouldn’t have been satisfied with that. 

“Do you prefer only women as well? I have heard that some like both.”

Margaery waved a hand. “More or less. I do prefer the company of a woman over a man.”

“The King doesn’t seem so bad a husband. I have only seen him in passing, but I’m sure he would be accommodating.”

Would she ever tell Robb she preferred women? She hadn’t thought that far. Marianne seemed adamant that no man would ever enjoy her bed, but Margaery had always had other plans. She was always to become Queen, to bed her husband and get with child. The first two had been easy, even pleasurable, but the third had yet to come. Her grandmother had been disappointed, since if Robb died she would be nothing again, but she hadn’t minded. Children would come, but she wasn’t praying for them. She was only sixteen, after all. It was common for women in the Reach to marry young, but it was usually a year or two before they started bearing children. But she pushed the thought from her mind. _ A child shouldn’t be born now, not with this war. _

“No,” Margaery said. “The King is a good man.” She stared off for a moment, thinking of Robb, wondering if he was safe, if he had been hurt, if he was coming back . . . but she shut it down and turned back to her guest. “I must confess, Lady Marianne, I asked you here for rather selfish reasons.”

Marianne smiled, and she saw his smile. “I am at your disposal, Your Grace.”

_ It would be so easy _ , she thought,  _ to just lean forward and kiss her. To forget about everything else, about Loras, about Elinor, about Robb, and get lost in her. _ But there was something stopping her. She was beautiful, gods know she was beautiful, and here in front of her, but she couldn’t. When she looked at her, she didn’t see a bedmate; she saw someone filling the hole Robb and Elinor had left behind. She saw her own loneliness and desperation, not a partner. 

Marianne saw it too. “Is something the matter?”

Margaery shook her head, putting a pleasant smile on her face. “Very selfish reasons indeed. The nights grow rather cold, and I have always had one of my ladies warm my bed. I was hoping you might perhaps take up that position.”

Marianne seemed surprised, but the corners of her mouth turned up. “It would be my honor, Your Grace.”

For a moment Margaery considered giving her leave to call her by her name, instead of by her title, but she could not imagine it would sound anywhere near as good as when Robb said her name.

 

* * *

 

Less than three weeks after the army had left, Margaery had Riverrun under her thumb. She had spent more time in the camps with her Riverlands ladies, and she had found the lowborn to be much more receptive to her when surrounded by the highborn ladies they already knew. She’d spent time talking to the women there, learning their names and customs, and invited them to share their troubles with the queen. She’d organized food and shelter for the women, though only after extensive talks with the elderly Riverrun steward. He hadn’t seemed to understand just how  _ much _ the Tyrells had brought with them; there was plenty of food for them all. The woman appreciated her for it, as well as the men who had remained behind to defend the castle. Inside Riverrun she spent time in the stables, the forge, with seamstresses and scullery maids. She was conquering Riverrun one person at a time, just as she had planned. There were customs she didn’t understand still, and relationships and lords, but they were beginning to love her, and that was what mattered.

After an afternoon spent amongst the lowborn, graciously accepting their prayers that the King would soon return, she went to her goodmother’s chambers. She spent most evenings here now, since Loras had made no move to reconcile and she felt no need to apologize. 

She spent a peaceful evening dinner with Lady Catelyn before saying goodnight. She always felt warm leaving her goodmother’s chambers, and peaceful. Catelyn Stark was the kind of woman who was motherly to her core, and it felt good to speak to someone like that who didn’t expect anything more out of her. She was a mother who had no children around her to take care of, and Margaery filled that gap. Though, it was not an especially hard thing to do. 

She left late in the evening, and passed Brienne of Tarth, her goodmother’s sworn shield. Margaery wasn’t entirely sure how she had become sworn to her, but she seemed devoted to her nonetheless. It did feel a bit strange to Margaery, since she could remember when Renly had named her to his Kingsguard. This woman, this tall, brutish woman, had been the only one to defeat her brother in combat. And yet, she had been as helpless as the rest of them when Renly had been killed. She had not spoken to the woman since, despite them being in such close proximity to each other. She passed by her, just as she had a dozen times before, expecting silence, but this time the woman spoke. 

“Your Grace,” the woman called, as if shocked by the sound of her own voice. 

Margaery turned around, a small but pleasant smile on her face. “Lady Brienne?”

“Please call me Brienne, Your Grace. I am no lady.” She paused for a moment. “I was hoping I might speak with you.”

“Of course, Brienne. What troubles you?” She adopted the same tone she did with her ladies and the lowborn women. 

The woman took in a breath. “Your Grace, I must beg your forgiveness.” And in a dramatic yet clumsy move, the woman knelt before her, head bowed.

“My forgiveness? What is it you have done?” Margaery asked, more confused than entertained.

“I failed to protect King Renly, Your Grace. I understand if forgiveness is not an option.”

Margaery sighed quietly. “Please stand, Brienne.” She stood. “What happened to Renly is not your fault. It was Stannis and his red witch, not you. I absolve you of your guilt.”

The lady knight breathed a sigh of relief, but a sadness remained in her eyes. “Thank you, Your Grace. I will continue to honor our King’s memory, and wish you luck in your new marriage.”

Margaery almost corrected her on the use of ‘our King’ but it was plain to see that she had loved him. Loved him far more than Margaery ever could. “Thank you, Brienne. I trust you will take good care of my goodmother.” She was desperate for this conversation to be over.

“I will defend her with my life, Your Grace.” With that, Margaery bid Brienne of Tarth goodbye and returned to her chambers, where Marianne was waiting for her. At last, another day was at an end.

The longer she spent in Riverrun the more she missed Highgarden. Back then her greatest worry was if one of her dresses got soiled or she got caught with a stableboy. Now she went from sunup to sundown, talking to people, winning their love, playing the game. At first she had thrived on it as a distraction, fascinated by the novelty of it all, but now all she wanted to do was curl up in bed. She would never, since it would cause too much trouble than it was worth, but oh, how she wished for the peace of her girlhood.

“Your brother gave me a very nasty look when I entered your chambers today,” Marianne started with an easy smile and a slight twitch of her brow. 

Margaery sat at her vanity and let her companion begin to undo her braid. “Nastier than usual?”

“For such a pretty man it surprises me how twisted his face can get. I keep expecting him to say something equally nasty.” Marianne paused for a brief laugh, and Margaery almost smiled. “Have you told him that we are not, in fact, sleeping together?”

Margaery shook her head. She’d barely spoken three words to her brother since that night. “I’ll tell him to stop.”

“Oh, please don’t go to the trouble. He can be quite amusing.” Marianne gave a small smile, then paused, reaching to grab a comb. “I know you and your brother are at something of an impasse right now, but I do believe he is only trying to protect you.”

Margaery paused. “Sometimes, my dear companion,” she said lightly, “you are too forward.”

Marianne looked down, then back at Margaery through the mirror. “Forgive me, my dear Queen, but sometimes you are too backwards.”

Margaery raised a vaguely threatening eyebrow, and Marianne was silent. For a moment, that is.

“I’ve noticed you never speak of your husband,” she observed. 

“I thought you would prefer me to not speak of my husband,” Margaery responded evenly.

“I never said that.”

“Why should I speak of him, then?”

“You seem to care for him a great deal. I had imagined you would care to speak of him.”

“I do not.”

“The first night we spoke you told me you didn’t like a cold bed. You never said his name, but he was on your mind.”

“You presume to know what is on my mind?” She snapped, and immediately regretted it.

“It is not always easy to adjust to new places and new responsibilities, Your Grace. I told you I would serve you in any way you need me.”

“I do not need to be served in this way.”

“I saw you that day, in the courtyard,” she said quickly. “When you said good-bye to him. I saw the look on your face, and on his. You care for him, maybe more, and it isn’t any good to pretend like he doesn’t exist.”

Her heart tightened and tears pricked at her eyes. She swallowed it down, despite remembering the very scene she’d just described. She remembered how he’d smiled at his mother and how he’d kissed her own forehead so gently, like one of the knights from the songs. Then he’d swung up on his horse, the sun hitting his auburn hair, and then he’d gone. And Margaery had been left waiting in that courtyard, refusing to admit how afraid she was. She still refused. If she let herself think on it for one moment it would consume her, and so she refused it. She would protect herself, as she always had.

“You grow too bold, Lady Marianne.” 

“My apologies, Your Grace,” she relented.

 

* * *

 

More days passed, with little and less news from the front. She kept her concern behind a thick mask, trying to think of anything else. Even her goodmother, who was hard-pressed to let any worry show, began to do just that. The castle was crawling with tension, only alleviated by somewhat regular reports saying that defeat had not happened. Neither had victory.

Margaery felt the weight on her shoulders getting heavier and heavier, but she maintained smiles and comfort for all who needed it from her. She was Queen, after all, and these were her people now. 

She came from a meeting with the seamstress, who had taken to refitting her Highgarden gowns and making them more suitable for the colder climate. It was no easy task, for the seamstress nor for her. Northerners were much more economical with their clothing - it was made to keep a person warm than look pretty. She’d begun to settle into the Stark colors; gray and white, as well as some blues and greens. It was nothing like the lush greens and golds and blues she’d worn in her youth, but they kept her warm. She supposed that was more important.

The sky had darkened over the past day, and she’d heard some whispering that it was an ill omen. She refused to let herself believe it was, and continued on with her day. Dark clouds brought rain, nothing more, she told herself. But these didn’t. 

She was walking through the courtyard, headed to the rookery to see if there were any new messages, when she felt the tiniest prick of cold on her hand. She looked up, expecting the rain to come pouring down right on top of her, but instead she saw the smallest bits of white, swirling down softly. 

_ Snow. _

It was not the type that was going to stick around, blanketing everything in a soft layer of white, but Margaery felt a mix of doom and childlike wonder as the snowflakes met with her eyelashes, her cheeks, her lips. She hadn’t seen snow since she was a young girl, maybe four or five years old. Loras had woken her up early that morning, just before dawn, and they’d gone out into the courtyard and built a tiny little snowman. He’d been half-melted by the end of the day, but she’d been glowing with happiness. She walked through the courtyard, marveling at the little white flakes, even sticking out her tongue to catch one. 

“That’s very Queenly of you,” a voice said, startling her from her daydream. She spun around to be faced with her brother. She stiffened slightly. They’d barely spoken since that night.  _ When he accused me of being a whore. _

“Do you remember when we played in the snow? And we built that snowman?”

The corner of his mouth turned up. “We barely had enough snow.”

“But we built it anyway.” 

Silence settled over the courtyard as neither one of them knew what to say.

Loras sighed. “I’m sorry, Margie. I shouldn’t have said those things.”

“No, you shouldn’t have.”

Loras seemed to know that was coming. “Can we talk? Maybe somewhere warm?”

Margaery hesitated for a moment, but assented and they headed to her chambers. She sat on her couch, waiting for him to speak. 

“Everything happened so fast . . . you know, after Renly. It was all so simple and then . . . then we were here, among these people we don’t know and I . . . it’s hard. It’s hard.” Her brother swallowed. 

“I know, Loras. I know.” It hadn’t been easy for her either, but at least she had a purpose here. He’d been left in the dust to deal with his grief. “You haven’t talked much about him since.”

Loras took a shuddering breath, trying to hold back tears. “I watched him die, Margaery. I watched him die and I couldn’t do anything. There isn’t anything else to say.”

Her brother looked down, wringing his hands together, and took a shaky breath.

Margaery had been there, she’d seen Renly take his last breath, and it was the worst thing she’d ever experienced. She could hardly imagine what Loras was going through.

Grief had changed her brother in little ways. He had been so reckless before losing him, and she’d been surprised when he hadn’t gone with the others to fight. Knowing her brother he would’ve died valiantly with Renly’s name on his lips, but he hadn’t. She was grateful; grief and recklessness should never mix.

She stood, wrapping her arms around him as tight as she could, and whispered, “I’m sorry.” She could tell he only just managed to keep himself together, even as he hugged her back. They stood like that for a long time. 

“I’m sorry, too,” he said, pulling away. “I shouldn’t have accused you of . . .”  _ being a whore _ .

“I haven’t slept with anyone. I mean, not since Robb left.”

Loras did seem vaguely surprised. “But, wait - that Harlton lady? She’s in your chambers every night.”

“She shares my bed, yes, but we’re not sleeping together.”

“Oh,” he said, face drawn in confusion. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright.”

“So . . . not since Robb?”

“No.”

Loras seemed genuinely shocked. “Wow. That’s almost a month. That might be a new record for you,” he said cheekily. 

Margaery rolled her eyes, but she smiled. “Bold, coming from you,” she said, and they both half-laughed for a moment. Neither of them were funny, but it was better to cut the tension.

“You never talk about him.”

“Who?” She asked, though she knew who.

“Robb.”

“Why should I? He’s not here.”

“No, but he is your husband. And I know you care for him.”

“Of course I do. He’s my husband,” she said sharply.

“It’s okay to worry about him, Marg.”

_ Not if he comes back dead _ . “It’s a good thing I don’t have time to worry, then. Queens keep busy.”

“That’s why you have Marianne Harlton sharing your bed, isn’t it? You miss him.”

“I  _ don’t _ miss him.”

“You do,” he insisted. “And that’s okay. He’s going to come back, Margaery. You’re not going to be alone.”

Tears threatened in her eyes and her throat grew thick. She remembered him in that courtyard before he left, sitting on his horse like some sort of god. But he wasn’t a god, he was just a man, and barely one at that. Men bled. Men died. Men didn’t come back.

And yet, she’d imagined him returning a thousand times. She’d imagined how he’d come striding into the courtyard, and he would smile at her, and take her in his arms. She’d imagined being held, being safe . . . being loved. She wanted it so badly that it hurt, but she couldn’t want it. Not now, not during this damned war.

“Every night I fall asleep thinking he has died, and every morning I wake up to a report that he’s alive.” Margaery laughed bitterly, swallowing tears. “Be grateful you won’t ever be a wife, for all men do is ride off to war and leave widows in their wake.”

She paused for a very long time, her heart smoldering like a dying fire. 

“I hate him.”

“No, Margaery, you don’t.”

“I hate him.” She said it in the softest of voices. Every time she thought of him her heart hurt, and every time she cursed it. “He will not return, and all of this will have been for nothing.”

Loras stepped forward and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “You won’t be a widow again. He will come back, and you will love him, and he will love you. I promise.”

Margaery didn’t know what kept her together, when all she wanted to do was crumple to the floor and sob like a child.

 

* * *

 

Once she’d regained some composure she went to her goodmother’s solar, which she usually did at this time of day. She knocked on the door, but when she didn’t immediately hear Lady Catelyn’s usual calm “Enter” she knocked again. 

“You’re sure she’s in there?” Margaery asked Brienne, who was standing guard outside the door.

“Yes, Your Grace. She is reading the day’s raven scrolls.”

“Hmm,” Margaery went ahead and pushed the door open, and gasped.

Lady Catelyn was sobbing. Her auburn hair was strewn all around her, far from the neat braid she usually kept it in. Her face was the same color as her hair, and streaked with tears. In her hands was a raven scroll, half-ripped to pieces. She didn’t even seem to notice that Margaery had come in. 

“Lady Catelyn?” She tried, before going to her and wrapping her arms around her.

“They’re dead,” her goodmother sobbed.  _ No, no, no, not Robb, please not Robb. He can’t be, he can’t. _ She frantically took the raven scroll and read it.

_ Theon Greyjoy has taken Winterfell. He has killed Brandon and Rickon Stark. _

 

* * *

 

The sun was high in the sky when the bells rang, signaling what she’d spent weeks hoping and praying for. At long last, Robb Stark was returning to Riverrun. 

But, happiness had no place at a time like this. She’d spent the better part of her morning putting her goodmother to bed. The maester had finally given her sweetsleep so she might get a few hours rest. Margaery had stayed by her bedside until she heard the bells. 

She had the raven scroll in her pocket.  _ How strange, how parchment is so light and yet these words are not _ . Dark wings, dark words, she had heard her goodmother say. 

She descended the stairs quietly. All around her servants were bustling, preparing for the arrival of the King, but Margaery did not hear them. All she could think was,  _ How am I going to tell him? _

She was standing in the courtyard when he rode in, looking majestic in his armor, those red curls waving brilliantly in the wind. Her heart lifted for the briefest of moments, her knees went weak.  _ He is here. He is safe. It will be alright. _ And yet, the scroll in her hand told differently.  _ How am I going to tell him? _

He looked at her and smiled easily, his eyes bright.  _ Victory, then. _ The thought held no joy.  _ How can I tell him? Not after victory, I cannot tell him, I don’t have the strength. _

He noticed her and stopped smiling. He walked towards her, his worrying gaze piercing hers. “Margaery, what is it?” He put his arms on her. “We have won, Margaery.” From here she could see the weariness in his eyes, feel it in his hands. He may have won, but it hadn’t been an easy victory.  _ How can I tell him? _

The scroll in her hand burned. 

“Oh, Robb,” she cried, and put the scroll in his hands. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! sorry for the long absence, this last half of the semester kicked my ass and also this chapter ended up being . . . very long, and the editing process was even longer. good news, though, i have the next couple chapters mostly edited so i should get those out pretty quickly. thank you all for reading, and please leave a kudos or a comment if you enjoyed!


	11. Robb V

_ Theon Greyjoy has taken Winterfell. He has killed Brandon and Rickon Stark.  _

Everything stopped.  _ Bran and Rickon . . . no, I saw them just half a year ago. And Theon . . . Theon was in the Iron Islands, not at Winterfell. _

He looked at the letter again, but the words were still there.  _ They’re not dead. They can’t be dead. Theon wouldn’t kill them, it can’t be. They are his brothers too. _

“I am so, so sorry,” Margaery said, and it became real.

_ Theon killed my brothers. _ The force of betrayal struck the core of his soul. He took a haggard breath. His shoulders shook with the effort. His throat grew thick, his arms grew heavy, but there were too many eyes watching. He could not mourn them here.

“My mother,” he choked out, “where is my mother?”

Margaery hesitated, her eyes wide, but nonetheless took his arm and led him into the castle. He did not feel how tightly she held his arm, nor the worried glances she kept giving him as they walked. He could only think of his brothers. Ten minutes ago he was riding into Riverrun, the joy of victory bounding through his body, and was now a fading memory. Its replacement was a deep emptiness in his chest, a block of failure where his heart was. With each step the weight grew heavier until it began to burn inside him, as cold and unforgiving as ice. He had failed them. He had marched south and left his brothers alone to rule in his absence. How could he have left them? Bran, gods, he was nine years old! And he’d left him to be Lord of Winterfell, him, a crippled child! And Rickon, wild little Rickon, always clinging to his mother’s skirts. Rickon, who had cried every night begging for his mother. He was barely four. And Theon . . . Theon had killed them. Theon, his brother, his best friend, the man who had been by his side every moment when he’d taken over as Lord of Winterfell, and then as King. The man who had always supplied a joke when Robb needed cheering, who’d taught him how to handle a sword, who’d convinced him to sneak out more than once to spend the night in Wintertown. The man who’d killed his brothers.

He’d last seen him four moons ago,  _ gods, has it been that long? _ Four moons ago, just before he had sent him to Pyke. What had happened? How had he ended up in Winterfell? Why had he killed the boys who had been like brothers to him? Why?  _ Why?  _

His sorrow turned to rage to ice, until his blood burned. He stopped and took his arm from Margaery, and left. 

He faintly heard her call after him, but he kept going. Fleeing. Running.

He took his horse and left, frightening a servant, and ran over the drawbridge and past the camp. He rode, trying to ignore the tears that fell from his eyes. He rode into the biting autumn wind, each gust like a beating. He rode as if he could go to Winterfell and save his brothers.

His horse stopped, frothing at the mouth, and kicked him from her back. He landed in the grass, dirty and tired and frustrated, but he did not get up. His own failure enveloped him. The crushing weight in his chest threatened to suffocate him. The burning ice in his veins blinded him.

His fingers burned. He stood, frozen. He reached for his sword. There was one thing he knew to do; it wasn’t politics, or strategy, or marriage, but he did know his sword. He struck whatever was nearest with blind fury; blind despair. He swung and hit and thrashed, every part of him burning. His arm ached and his eyes stung and his fingers were numb, but he would not stop. 

“Robb!” Her voice rang, clear as a bell, fraught with worry. He hit the tree one last time before his sword dropped from his hand into the dust. He turned to her, eyes pleading.

“They’re dead.” His voice broke. “They’re dead, and I can’t save them.”

She took his sore hands in hers. “There was nothing you could’ve done.”

“There was  _ everything _ I could have done!” He took his hands from her. “I-” he broke off, not knowing the words.

“Robb,” she went to him again, putting her hands on his shoulders. “Robb, take a breath.” He did so, shakily. “Good, now another.” He shook less this time.

“I’ll kill them,” he said, not meeting her eyes. “I’ll kill every last one of them.”

He felt her tense. “Your mother needs you right now.”

He shook his head. “I can’t - I can’t face her. I - I -”

“It is not your fault,” she said fiercely, and he had no choice but to listen to her. “Right now, your mother needs you.”

Robb met her eyes, wide brown meeting red-rimmed blue. He had a thousand words to say, but nothing could come out. 

“Okay,” he said at last. He bent and picked up his blade.

“It’s ruined,” Margaery said, shock in her voice.

“Aye,” he said, but he could not find it in himself to care.

 

* * *

Margaery didn’t leave his side until he came to his mother’s door. 

“How long? How long has it been?”  _ How long have they been dead? How late am I? _

“The raven only arrived this morning,” she said, giving his hand a squeeze as she slid hers away.

He took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

His mother was on the bed, looking as if she’d aged five years. Her hair had fallen out of its neat braid and was limply strewn around her face. Her cheeks were still stained with tears; her skin was pale.

“Mother,” he called in a soft voice.  _ I have to be strong for her. _ She looked at him. The grief in her eyes was almost too much for him to bear.

“Robb,” her voice was wracked with grief. She reached her hand out and he went to her, taking it in his own. She squeezed it lightly.  _ I failed, Mother. I did not protect them. _

The anger took hold of him once again. No child ever wants to see their mother cry - it was a failure. It took root in him, like an ember in a dying fire.  _ She needs me _ , he reminded himself.

“Rickon,” his mother started, “he was only a baby. A baby. How could he deserve such a death? And Bran . . . when I left the north he had not yet opened his eyes. I had to go before he woke. Now I can never return to him, or hear him laugh again.” Her fingers traced the scars on her hands, the scars left by Bran’s attacker. “He would have died then, that night, and me with him, but that wolf tore out the man’s throat.” She paused, folding her hands in her lap. “I suppose Theon killed the wolves too. He must have, elsewise . . . I was certain they’d be safe so long as the direwolves were with them.”

His mother spoke slowly, as if there was no one else in the room. But then her eyes turned to him.

“I’ll kill him,” he promised. “I will kill Theon, and every man with him. I will go back to Winterfell and kill him myself.”

If anything, the sadness deepened. “No, my sweet boy. We have to get the girls and your father back.” She paused, sighing. “They are all we have left.”

_ It is too late for Bran and Rickon _ .

“I will kill them all.”  _ But it won’t bring them back. _

“Robb, look at me.” Her voice shuddered. “When this is all over, I will help you kill them  _ myself _ .” Her eyes flashed; a shiver of fear ran through him. “But we have to get the girls and Ned back first.”

_ My sisters. My father. Still hostages of the Lannisters. _ “He’s dead.”

“Who?” His mother asked, not looking strong enough to handle more death.

“Tywin Lannister. He’s dead.” Robb said, but he felt no triumph.

“Did you?” She asked with concerned eyes. Robb was quick to shake his head.

“He was dead before I got to him. I don’t know whether he did it himself or someone else got to him first.” The sight of the Lion’s mangled body would stay with him for a long time, he knew.

His mother leaned back, absorbing the thought. Then, on her grief-stricken face, her lips curled into a savage smile. 

“Good.”

 

* * *

Robb stumbled his way back to his room. After weeks of sleeping in tents, with a thin piece of canvas the only protection from the wind, he could think of no more welcome sight than his bed. He tore his armor off, dirty and dented, and fell into bed. 

But sleep would not come.

It’s not often one can forget the horrible things they’ve seen. It was no different for him. They flashed through his mind: the sight of Tywin’s body after the men had gotten to it, torn and bloodied; the look on Margaery’s face when he’d rode in; the boy he’d killed on the battlefield, as big as he was but could not be more than twelve; the stench of bodies, of sweat, of blood; the savage glee on his mother’s face when he told her Tywin Lannister was dead. And yet worst of all was Theon’s face, smiling at him as he said good-bye. 

It was too much. He had come south to rescue his father and sisters from the Lannisters. It had been half a year and he barely felt closer to King’s Landing than he did when he left Winterfell. Half a year, his best friend betrayed him and killed his brothers. Half a year, and he was a man wed. Had he really only been a boy then, spending his nights drinking stolen ale with Theon within the safe walls of Winterfell? What had happened? How had it gone so wrong? The only good thing, if it could even be called that, was that Tywin Lannister was no longer a threat. But Robb took no joy in his death.

His father had once told him that being Lord was like being a father to many, many children, and it never got any easier to lead them into battle, knowing not all would come back. Many hadn’t, this last time. Tywin Lannister was no easy man to defeat, and Robb had certainly paid the price for it. Many of his advisors thought the count would be higher, but so many men were dead. They had died for a good cause, he knew, but every time he saw a fallen banner he wondered if it was worth it. In the beginning he had been filled with such fire, such passion, but he felt he’d aged ten years in these past six months. He had always played at war as a child, pretending it was some majestic thing you did for glory and honor. He shook his head.

His mind went back to Winterfell. He wondered if Theon had taken the lord’s chamber, if he was sitting in his father’s seat, claiming to be Lord. Why had he wanted it so badly? Why had he betrayed him? He sighed, shaking away the thoughts. 

_ I had four brothers when I woke up this morning, and now I have one. _

But Jon was on the Wall, and he hadn’t laid eyes on his brother for two years. At first they’d conversed through letter, but then Robert Baratheon came to Winterfell and his life changed overnight. He hadn’t received a letter from him in at least a year, he reckoned. He knew he had become Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, which Robb always knew he’d become. He hadn’t had time to write him and ask him how  _ that _ came to be. He hoped he was happy. He wished he was here.

There was a soft knock at the door, startling him out of his thoughts.

“Robb?” She called tenderly, padding into the room.

It had only been a month since he’d last seen his bride, but she’d changed. She looked like a true Northerner now, with her warm dress and long braid. He even thought her eyes were sharper now, but he might’ve just been imagining that. More than once he had thought how strange it was that he was married, and that he would be with this woman for the rest of his life. During the march he wondered at how their marriage could end just as quickly as it had begun, if he fell in battle. A part of him expected to fall, and part of him had settled with the thought that he might die. But he hadn’t, and he had returned. There had been a lightness in his chest when he first rode into the courtyard. He’d never been able to come home to someone like this. He’d pictured the moment half a hundred times on his return. She would stand there waiting for him, smiling that strange little half-smile of hers, and he would grin and go to her and hold her in his arms. But that hadn’t happened.

He sat up, running a hand through his curls. They stared at one another for a moment, neither of them knowing what to say. She was the first to look away. 

“I thought you might like some tea,” she said. 

“Thank you,” he replied.

She handed him a cup, and also poured for herself. She met his gaze, and broke it as she drank. The tea was good, and warm. It eased the exhaustion in his bones.

It was quiet. He heard Margaery take a breath, as if to start speaking, but she stopped. It was a long moment before she did it again, and he knew what she was going to say.

“The lords want you to address them,” she said. “It grows late.” There was nothing more he wanted to do than crawl into bed and lay there for a month, but his day was not over yet.

He could see the sun beginning to set through the window. He could faintly hear the hoops and hollers of men who had just won a great victory. He wanted to let them enjoy themselves a while longer yet, before being faced with the news that another enemy had appeared.  _ Theon, an enemy? _ It still didn’t feel real.

He turned back to his wife. “Is my mother still sleeping?” He had stayed with her until the maester had given her milk of the poppy.

Margaery nodded.

“Good,” he nodded once and stood. The ache in his body returned. He straightened his shoulders and turned to her. “Do the lords know?”

It was much easier for his wife to be logical rather than emotional, he noticed. “I’m sure some do, by this hour,” she said. “Most know that something terrible has happened, but they are waiting for you.”

He nodded stiffly.  _ I must tell them what has to be done. But what is that? _

He began to formulate a plan as he began to walk, but Margaery stopped him. “Robb,” she said, a little exasperatedly. “Your clothes are travel-stained. You can’t wear those.”

He looked down at his dusty doublet and assented. He changed quickly, straightening it until his wife was satisfied.

“And your crown,” she said, moving to get it. 

He stopped her. “I can’t wear that now.”

“You’re the king,” she protested.

“I know that. You know that. The lords know that. A crown won’t change that.”

She seemed as though she wanted to protest more, but she put the crown back. 

“Have the lords gather in the Hall - all of them.” Margaery nodded and had one of the servants send word. He began pacing, trying to decide what he was going to say and how he was going to say it.

“You must make them angry,” Margaery said. He looked up, surprised. She continued. “You must make them angry, or they will feel they have been defeated.”

He stared at her hard for a long minute. “My men will fight for me to the last. I don’t need to rile them up.”

“You’re forgetting  _ my _ men. Northerners fight for you because they know you; they feel as strongly about this as you do. My men do not. They fight for you because my family has told them to. You must show them differently.”

He said nothing for another long moment.  _ She is right _ . 

He took a deep breath and extended his arm. She took it, curling her arm tightly around his. 

They walked to the Hall in silence. With every step his feet grew heavier. He wanted to rest, to not think about war for one peaceful moment, but that was not his fate. Not while his home was in the hands of invaders. Not while his father and sisters were prisoners. Not while he was alive.

_ I must anger them.  _ He faltered.  _ What are the right words? How do I make them vengeful? _

After what felt like an eternity and not enough time, they came to the door. 

“Go in alone,” Margaery said. “They need to know you are strong. I will follow.” For a moment he didn’t know if he could make it to the end of the Hall alone, but Margaery slipped her arm out of his anyway. 

He didn’t know why it mattered, but he was in no state of mind to contradict her now. For a split second an image of his father and mother came to mind; how they were always walking together, as if two parts of the same whole. He wanted that, he needed that. He took her arm.

“Robb,” she contested, but he shook his head. His mother had never followed behind his father, not in times like these.

“I need you.” He spoke softly, nearly inaudibly, but despite the uncertain look on his wife’s face she kept her arm in his. 

And that was all he needed to say. The doors opened, and King and Queen entered. The room fell silent as they entered, as each lord was trying to gauge his mood. Two pairs of footsteps echoed on the stones; the flame of the candles was eerily still; the entire Hall seemed to be holding its breath. He could feel the questioning stares on him like a thousand needle pricks, each one of them wanting to know the answer to the infamous question:  _ What will you do? _

He took his place at the top of the Hall and turned to face his lords. Margaery stood by him.

“My Lords!” He called them to attention, but there was no need. All of their eyes were on him. 

He took a deep breath before continuing. “We have won a great victory against the Lannisters, but while one enemy is subdued another has risen in its place.” All of the lords were holding their breath. “A raven arrived this morning from Winterfell. Theon Greyjoy has sacked Winterfell and killed its people. My brothers, the princes, are dead.” He stayed strong until the last word, when his voice broke; but the message was received. “Balon Greyjoy has named himself King of the Iron Islands. His son holds Winterfell for the Ironborn.”

The resentment among the Northern lords was thick and boiling. “Ironborn scum hold Winterfell!” “How dare they claim Winterfell!” “Let’s send them to their Drowned God!”

Garlan Tyrell was close enough for him to hear. “What will you do, Your Grace?” He had asked the question. 

He called the angry Northern lords to attention. “Winter is coming.” The Stark words always made others uneasy, but the entire Hall fell silent at his warning. “If we all march north we will not return south.”

“What, and leave Winterfell in the hands of Theon Greyjoy?!” The Greatjon bellowed, and the other lords made sounds of agreement. 

He turned to the Reach lords; he could feel Margaery’s eyes on him. “Lord Redwyne,” he said, turning to the Lord of the Arbor, “the Ironborn have frequently attacked your lands, yes?”

Lord Paxter nodded, but seemed confused. “Yes, Your Grace. The Ironborn are a scourge.”

_ Rile them up. _ “They have plundered your stores, killed your men, raped your women.”

He shuffled, like a bird ruffling its feathers. “My navy is strong, Your Grace. We have beat back the Ironborn many times. I was on Pyke that day, when we beat the Greyjoys.”

“You have as much reason to hate the Ironborn as any Northerner.”

“As does my House,” Baelor Hightower spoke up, his face clouded with anger. “The Ironborn sneak into Oldtown upon stolen ships. They loot and rape and terrorize, and they’re always gone before the City Watch is called.”

Robb nodded sympathetically and turned to address them all. “Asha Greyjoy still holds Moat Cailin. There is no way to get to Winterfell without passing through there.”

“We must get the Ironborn  _ out _ of the North!” Lord Umber shouted, his emotions nearly getting the better of him. “I will take my men and march for Winterfell this very day!” A few other lords made shouts of agreement. 

“Moat Cailin is still an issue. We’ll never get past it if the Ironborn are there,” Edmure said to the Greatjon.

“And don’t forget the Freys,” Lord Jason Mallister of Seagard said. Seagard was the closest castle to the Twins, he recalled. “They all marched home when they heard of your wedding.”

Four thousand men, gone because of the contents of a letter. With fifty thousand men coming in it hadn’t been so great a loss, but the Twins remained the closest stronghold to Moat Cailin. If they were to march north they’d have to go over their bridge. Robb had already thought of this. 

“No army marching north will get past the Twins without bloodshed,” he agreed. He turned to Paxter Redwyne once more. “But, there is a river that goes from the sea to the castle.”

The thin Lord of the Arbor looked at him with small eyes. “Your Grace, I-”

“The Ironborn have nearly all of their strength congregated in one place, Lord Redwyne. This may be the chance for our three kingdoms to finally crush the Ironborn that have looted our homes and killed our people.” A shout of agreement came from some of the lords, mostly Northern.

“Bear Island has fought off the Ironborn many times before,” Maege Mormont stepped forward, locking eyes with Redwyne. “The Mormonts will stand with you to take Moat Cailin.”

“Thank you, Lady Maege.” The woman gave a gruff nod.

“Seagard has been the target of Ironborn attacks for centuries. I would volunteer my men and ships as well.” Jason Mallister stepped forward, nodding at Robb. He concealed a smile.

“Lord Redwyne,” he turned to him, “would you add your ships to theirs?”  _ No Reach lord will be undone by a woman and a Riverlander. _

The Lord of the Arbor looked around his fellow lords, most notably to his liege. Mace Tyrell, who had been strangely quiet thus far, gave the man a nod.

“Of course, Your Grace,” the man said with too much flourish. “But I must ask, if the Mormonts, Mallisters, and Redwynes are to be at Moat Cailin, where will the rest of the army be?”

The corner of his mouth turned up minutely. “The Westerlands,” he said, loud enough for every lord to hear him clearly.

A murmur went through the room as the lords looked to each other.

“Should we not move south, Your Grace?” asked Brynden Blackwood. “Aye, Tywin’s dead,” agreed Cley Cerwyn.

“Tywin’s death leaves the Westerlands open, but there are many other Lannisters who would take his place. Kevan Lannister has retreated with a few hundred men to the safety of Casterly Rock. With the assault on Moat Cailin, we will need to seize Lannisport before the Ironborn do.” He knew he should be heading south, to King’s Landing and his family, but he would not leave the Westerlands open. He hoped his mother would understand that. “We cannot leave and let the Lannisters seize the upper hand.”

Most of the lords nodded in assent.

“And what of Winterfell, Your Grace?” spoke Master Tallhart.

Robb swallowed. “The way to Winterfell cannot be clear until Moat Cailin is under our control.”

“Your Grace?” A voice called before the uproar could start again.

“Yes, Lord Bolton?” The Lord of the Dreadfort came forward. A strange man, but a good commander.

“My bastard son remains at the Dreadfort, some seven days’ ride from Winterfell. He could take the castle.

Robb hesitated.  _ Does he have the men? Could he truly do it? _ “Aye, Lord Bolton, that would be a great help to us all.”

He nodded. “I will send word at once, Your Grace.”

Robb turned to his three new naval commanders. “Lord Redwyne, I would like for you to depart for the Arbor as soon as possible. I will meet you at Lannisport.” 

“I will leave within the week.” The lord assented.

“And I would go with you, my lord,” spoke Garth Hightower, a younger brother of Baelor. “The Hightower fleet would join you.”

“I will return to Seagard with my men,” said Lord Jason, followed by Maege’s affirmation.

“The rest of us will follow the River Road to Lannisport.” The lords nodded, some even shouting, and he gave a small smile. “Let’s chase those Ironborn back to those rocks they call home! Let them see what happens when they invade lands that aren’t theirs.”

“For Winterfell!” cried the Greatjon.

“For the Reach!” cried Denys Redwyne.

“For the princes!” cried Dacey Mormont. The room grew solemn as every eye turned to him.

When he spoke, he spoke quietly. “Aye, for my brothers.”

 

* * *

The council disbanded quickly after Robb left the room, with Margaery on his arm. The heaviness settled on him as soon as he was out of sight of his lords, as soon as he didn’t have to be a king. The only person he had to lead was his own self to his bed. 

“You did well,” Margaery said, squeezing his arm lightly. “How did you think of that plan?”

Robb straightened his shoulders, pulling himself out of his thoughts. “I didn’t feel threatened by the Greyjoys until . . . but now it’s become an issue. There’s a river that runs from the Sunset Sea to Moat Cailin, it made sense to attack it by water, as the Greyjoys have done. It’s been in the back of my mind for a while, but it wasn’t necessary until now. Especially since we now have the Redwyne fleet, it’s much more likely that the plan will succeed.” He’d been near content to leave the ruin in the hands of the Greyjoys for a while longer, but they’d forced his hand. The Ironborn would learn what happened when wolves were roused.

“But why Lannisport? Why not go south?” She asked as if she already understood why, but wanted to hear it from his own lips. He replied anyway.

“The Iron Islands are too close to Lannisport for my liking. If they sack it before we do, it’ll be twice as difficult to get it under my control. Besides, the Redwyne fleet will need a base to restock and resupply. Seagard’s much closer, aye, but it doesn’t have the capacity to support that many ships.”

“You’re still dividing your forces,” Margaery said, but it was less a critique than it was something to keep in mind.

“Aye, but even without the Redwynes, some Hightowers, Mallisters and Mormonts there will still be soldiers enough to take Lannisport.”

“And you plan to take Casterly Rock too, yes?”

“Aye. Once Lannisport falls I’ll figure out how to take the Rock.”

“And kill the Lannisters within?”

Robb grimaced. “Only the guilty ones.”

“And then to King’s Landing, yes?”

“Aye,” he said, beginning to wonder what her point was. 

“Tywin is dead, but Kevan, Cersei and her brood are all still alive. If you take Casterly Rock and kill Kevan, and then take King’s Landing and kill Cersei and Joffrey, there’ll be a complete collapse of power in the Westerlands.”

That was too many moves ahead for him to bother with it now. “Margaery-”

“Robb. If Joffrey and Cersei are dead then Tyrion would become Lord, but I do not believe he would inspire devotion. Dorne will vie for Myrcella.”

“Margaery, that’s too far in the future.”

“No, it isn’t. Both Dorne and the Vale have not lent their soldiers to any cause yet.”

Robb’s head was beginning to spin. “Dorne has Myrcella. She’s betrothed to that Martell boy.”

“And soon, you will hold the Westerlands. Her inheritance. Besides,” she said, “being betrothed and being a hostage are not always explicitly different.”

Robb stopped walking. “Margaery, I just learned a few hours ago that my brothers are dead and my home has been sacked by the man I considered my best friend. I’m tired. We can talk about strategy later.”

Margaery met his gaze, but backed down this time. They resumed the walk back to their chambers. Grey Wind came trotting up behind them, taking his place on Robb’s other side. He let his hand rest in his thick fur. After what felt like an eternity, he fell into bed. Grey Wind, as loyal as always, laid down beside him. He was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

But it was a fitful sleep, and he woke again near as quickly as he’d fallen asleep. He had prayed to every god there was for a dreamless sleep, but every time he closed his eyes he only saw the faces of the dead, the deserter, and the despairing. 

He laid in bed for a long time, trying to shrug off the memories and dive into unconsciousness. It didn’t work. He gave a long sigh and rubbed his eyes, resigning himself to the fact he wasn’t going to sleep anytime soon. He sat up, resting his hand in his wolf’s fur, giving him a gentle pat. The door to the bedroom was cracked and a thin strip of light came into the dusk-lit room. He heard the gentle hum of women’s voices, one of them being Margaery’s. His wife’s company would surely be better than his own insomnia, but still he hesitated.

His wife was a much different creature than he was, and he felt almost uneasy about intruding on her. They had been around each other for less than five days, though they’d been married for more than a month. She had stayed by his side all day, and yet he hardly knew her. It was perplexing at best, this newfound relationship of theirs. 

He stood, his muscles aching as he did so. He stretched, trying to alleviate the ache, but he still felt weary. Grey Wind stood with him and copied his stretch.

He opened the door to find his wife and another woman on the couch sharing a glass of wine. They didn’t notice him at first, and he got to smile at seeing his wife be completely casual. Her hair was down and her small smile was pleasant and relaxed. 

They both noticed him at the same time, and the relaxed atmosphere disappeared. The other woman stood and curtseyed, murmuring, “Your Grace.”

He raised a hand, still somewhat uncomfortable at the title. Margaery turned to him, still seated. “I had the servants prepare a bath for you, if you’d like one.”

He relaxed. A bath was exactly what he needed. He gave a small, genuine smile. “Thank you.”

Margaery looked down before she looked back at him. “Of course. Just through there.”

The washroom and its bath were nothing compared to the hot springs under Winterfell, but it felt near as good as he sunk into the warm water. His body finally lost all the tension it’d held for weeks, and he let out a sigh. He could still hear Margaery and her friend in the other room, and it made him feel less alone. After the noise of an army camp trying to fall asleep in a quiet bedroom hadn’t been a good idea. Silence could be more deafening than he’d thought.

He sank further into the bath, trying to clear his mind of war and all that had come with it. It didn’t work. The same thoughts that had plagued him earlier returned, images of battle and pain and grief.

_ Theon. Bran. Rickon. Tywin. Mother. Jon. Theon. Dacey. Father. Sansa. Arya. Theon. _

_ Theon. Theon. Theon. _

_ Margaery. _

She was just in the next room. Even now, he could hear her sweet melodic voice. She was here. Theon was hundreds of miles away. In his home.

His chest tightened with the too-familiar feeling of grief. 

Was he a failure? He’d won every battle but he barely felt closer to finishing what he started all those months ago. He’d marched south to save his sisters and his father, and in the process he had lost three brothers and his home.

He ran his hands over his face. It was no good to sit and mourn, not now. If he let himself go, like he’d done earlier, it’d be even harder to come back. He massaged his hands, still sore. He tried to relax in the warm water, but while his body did his mind only became more agitated. Frustration overtook him; he didn’t know what he wanted to do or how to do it. He needed to go, to hit something, but his body was far too tired.

He sighed, frustrated. The bath had been a good idea; he only wished he could’ve enjoyed it more. What he needed were the hot pools under Winterfell. He and Jon used to swim in those pools, back when they were small enough so that their feet would barely brush the bottom.

He pulled himself out of the bath, his body protesting all the while. He did his best to ignore it as he threw on his nightclothes. Margaery and her lady had moved to the vanity, where she was brushing out her hair. They had been talking quietly but both looked up when they saw him enter.

“No, please,” he said, waving his hand as the woman turned to curtsy.

“I wouldn’t want to disturb you, Your Grace,” his wife’s lady said. She bared a striking resemblance to Marq Piper. Mayhaps they were related.

“No, not at all,” he continued walking through the wide doorway to their bed.

Despite that, however, his wife soon came alone into the room, also dressed in her nightclothes. Her hair was in a loose braid, draped over one shoulder.

“Have the sheets been changed?” He asked. He’d had a long day, and perhaps he was mistaken, but . . .

Margaery looked at him, but still looked as if she were only half paying attention. “They were dirty.”

Robb looked at her strangely. “Because of me?” He asked, a little humor creeping into his voice. 

She raised her eyebrow only just slightly, but didn’t answer immediately. “Your clothes  _ were _ dirty,” she finally said, just enough humor in her voice. 

Robb gave a small smile, feeling lighter than he had all day. “I’ll do my best to be clean in the future.”

Grey Wind padded into the room then and took his place on the bed next to Robb. Margaery stared at the wolf oddly for a moment. 

“He won’t hurt you,” he said. “He’s very friendly.”

Margaery gave a quick smile. “Forgive me, I haven’t seen such a large creature before,” and extended her hand. Grey Wind sniffed it and hesitated, before giving her a lick. He saw her give a small, sweet smile as she petted the top of his head. 

“He was the largest of the litter even as a pup,” he said with pride. “And he might still grow bigger.”

“My brother Willas breeds pups,” she commented, making conversation. “Most were used for hunting, but the ones who just weren’t cut out for it became my and my ladies’ lap dogs. They were nowhere near as big as this one is, though.”

“He is awfully big,” Robb frowned. It was usual for Grey Wind to sleep next to him, but three wouldn’t fit in the bed. “I can put him out, if you like.”

“Actually, I was going to ask if you’d prefer me to sleep somewhere else,” she said. Robb thought he detected the slightest hint of insecurity, but it might’ve just been his imagination.

“Why? You’re my wife.”  _ And I don’t want to be alone right now. _

She gave a weak smile, but a true one. It was the same thing he’d said to her on their wedding night, when Margaery had thought it better if she left.

He patted the bed next to him; she hesitated. Perhaps he was misremembering, but she seemed so much different than she had been a month ago. But, then again, the circumstances had changed drastically. Throughout the day she had hovered around him like a hen, as if worried that he might collapse. If he was being entirely honest, she was valid. But all he wanted now was to go to bed with his wife and sleep. 

She only hesitated half a second before climbing into bed, and they were quick to say goodnight and turn off the lights. And still, sleep would not come. He had never experienced a sleepless night until he became a king, but this was worse. He was exhausted right down to his bones; and yes he lay there, eyes wide open. His body cried out for rest, but his mind would not give it. His heart yearned to take up the standard and ride for Winterfell; his bones bade him rest; and his head was filled with memories and failures. He pulled Margaery closer to him and burrowed into her. Seh tensed, surprised, but soon relaxed into him. She took his hand in her own and soon he heard her breathing even out. She was warm and soft, and she was almost enough to make him forget. Almost. 

He did not know how long he lay there, but after a while he began to feel restless. He needed a distraction, he needed to think about anything else. He turned to his wife, but she was asleep by now. His wolf, however, was not.

Robb laid in silence for one more moment before pulling away from Margaery and sitting up. His direwolf’s yellow eyes flashed as he met his gaze. When Robb stood, he did as well, going obediently to his master’s side. He turned back and pulled the covers around his wife’s shoulders, smiling tenderly, and left the bedchamber. 

Silvery moonlight streamed through the cracks in the curtains, leaving the room in shades of blue and black, broken only by shafts of pure silver. All candles had been extinguished by this hour, and he was left in near-total darkness. He padded through the silent room, Grey Wind’s fur brushing against him. Upon the table he saw a tankard; he went to it and poured himself a drink. Soon enough that drink was gone, and he poured himself another. And another. And another. The moonlight had changed, but he had not.

He vaguely heard his wife stir in the bedroom, in the silence of the night, but he was too busy drowning his sorrows to notice. A few moments later he saw the flickering light of a candle, and behind it, her.

“Robb?” Her voice came quietly in the still of the night, as if she were part of the darkness. “Robb,” she sighed with relief, approaching him. “What are you doing up?”

She came and stood by him, clearly noticing the near empty jug. “Couldn’t sleep,” he replied.

“Would you like some company?”

He kicked the chair out from under the table, loudly disturbing the quiet night. “Sure,” he said, and poured her a cup. 

She hesitated before taking it and brought it gingerly to her mouth, recoiling at the smell. She didn’t say anything, but took a drink nonetheless.  

“You don’t like it,” he said, and at another time there may have been humor in his tone. 

“I’ve never had ale before,” she said, and took another drink, grimacing. 

“You don’t have to drink it,” he felt compelled to say. 

“Since I’m Queen in the North I don’t think I have a choice,” she said with a bit of humor. The word ‘Queen’ seemed to slide off her lips so easily. Was it even her real title anymore?

Robb shrugged and looked away. “How can you be Queen in the North when I no longer hold the North?” 

She looked at him with sympathy. He didn’t need sympathy, he needed to ride north and take his home back. “You are still the King in the North.” She said it fiercely, in her quiet way. His blood burned.

“Oh, am I? What a great king I am, for my home to have been seized by squids.” Theon had hated that term. 

“They will pay,” she said firmly, taking his hand in her own. “Bolton’s bastard will reclaim Winterfell, and they will pay.”

_ It should be me. _ “There must always be a Stark in Winterfell,” he said. He could hear his father’s voice. 

Margaery grew silent. “You will be there soon,” but he didn’t know if her words were comforting or not. 

“Not soon enough,” he sighed, and turned to his wife. “I’m sorry to be poor company.”

Margaery shook her head, squeezing his hand lightly. “You needn’t be sorry.”

He went to take another drink, but Margaery gently put her hand out to stop him. “In my experience, drowning sorrows isn’t the best way to cope.” She said it with care.

He sighed. “You’re probably right.” 

“Can I convince you to come back to bed?”

A large part of him wanted to say no. A part of him wanted to stay in this chair and drink until he forgot who he was. He gripped the cup in his hand, but did not move it. 

“Theon was my greatest friend in the world,” he began aimlessly. “I always looked up to him, since he was older. Me and him and Jon would run around Winterfell, playing pranks and sneaking out of our beds to go to Wintertown. He was by my side the entire march south, from the very moment I heard that my father had been thrown into a black cell and named a traitor. They could execute him at any point, you know? They could execute him, and all of this will have been for nothing. And no matter the outcome, my brothers are still dead.” He paused and took a few haggard breaths, not able to look at her. “I have been fighting for half a year, and yet the only thing I have done is lose my home. I am at the head of an army of eighty thousand men and yet I can’t protect my own family.” He couldn’t stop. “It gets so heavy, so heavy until I think I might collapse, but I cannot rest, not until they are safe; until everyone is back home, safe, but I’ll have to live the rest of my life knowing that I failed them.”

The only sound in the room was his haggard breathing. Slowly, in the pale moonlight, Margaery wrapped her hand around his. “You did not fail them, Robb. Theon failed you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! i meant to update thursday but i've barely had time to sit down since then lmaoo ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ i know this was a heavy chapter, but i really wanted to explore robb's mental state after learning about theon taking winterfell, especially because in this AU ned isn't dead, so this is the first true loss robb is experiencing. i hope you enjoyed, and if you did please leave a kudos or a comment! i always love hearing from y'all


	12. Margaery VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Is it someone different?"

Her husband was still sleeping soundly when she woke.  _ Thank the gods for small favors _ . It wasn’t too far from dawn when her husband had finally drifted off. He was still wrapped up in her when she woke, dozing peacefully on her chest. The toll that grief had taken on him had disappeared in unconsciousness; his brow was normally creased during the day, especially when he was stressed, but it was not there now. She was glad for it, after yesterday. Hopefully the gods had granted him sweet dreams as well.

She kissed his head and disentangled herself from him, making sure to pull the covers up around his shoulders. She normally slept late, but it was already past midmorning when she finally left her bedchamber.

“Good morning, Your Grace,” a maid curtseyed as she greeted her, already in the living room when she entered. “Would you like to break your fast in your rooms?”

Margaery nodded and told the maid her order. “Call Lady Marianne to my chambers as well,” she said, and the maid went scurrying off. She went to sit at her vanity, pulling her robe around her. It was by no means cold in this room, she would not allow it to be, and yet it still pricked at her. 

She looked at herself in the mirror. Her vanity at home had been covered in painted roses, pink and gold and white. She’d sat at it everyday for years, making sure there were no blemishes on her skin, that she had no bags under her eyes, and no hairs out of place. Her vanity here, like everything else, was unfamiliar. It was simplistic; gray-painted wood with an appropriately-sized mirror. Lifeless. Empty. Unfamiliar. Even the person in the mirror seemed a stranger to her this morning; her skin had grown paler since she’d been in Riverrun. The freckles which she’d always hated were slowly beginning to fade from the lack of summer sun. The plumpness in her cheeks remained, but she had suspected that would not disappear because of her new title. The bags under her eyes had grown heavier as well; the stress of the last month, especially the past day, had taken its toll. It frustrated her.

“Is it someone different, Your Grace?” Marianne entered the room, coming to stand behind her. 

“Hmm?”

“Looking in the mirror at you, is it someone different?” 

Margaery paused. “Not quite,” she said, touching a vain hand to her pale cheek.  _ Should it be? _

“You look healthy, Your Grace. That’s all that matters.”

Margaery ran her hands under her eyes, as if she could wipe her bags away. They stayed. Margaery sighed, letting her hands fall. It  _ was _ vain, but she didn’t want to look tired today. She didn’t need to look tired at all.

“Would you like me to do your hair?” Marianne asked; she nodded. She was very nimble with her fingers, nearly as good as her Highgarden handmaidens.

While Marianne was braiding a serving girl brought her breakfast. She ate quickly, but even Marianne noticed her yawning. 

“You seem more tired than usual,” she commented, as Margaery suppressed yet another yawn. 

“I think I’m warranted a few yawns,” she said, rubbing her eyes.

“How is the King?”

“Asleep,” she kept her answer short. Marianne was a good companion, but if she let slip that he’d been on the edge of a breakdown just hours ago half the castle would know by nightfall. She did trust her companion, but she knew better than to put information like that out into the world. 

“He deserves the rest.”  _ Indeed he does _ . 

If she was being entirely honest with herself, she was out of her mind with worry. If she hadn’t been there yesterday gods know what he could have done. He’d run off, ruined his sword, and then gotten drunk. He’d been able to pull it together for the meeting with the lords, but what if he wasn’t able to in the future? It was important that he always be seen as strong, and she thought he understood that. If his position was undermined, hers would be too, and then everything would be lost. The frustration gripped her; with a breath, she forced her shoulders to relax. 

“Despite everything, he still managed to win a great victory,” Marianne said, if only to start a conversation. 

“Yes, he did.” Tywin Lannister was dead, thank all the gods. Tyrion Lannister, the supposed heir, was in King’s Landing with no access to the westerlands, and the Kingslayer was sitting in a cell beneath her feet. The wild card was Cersei, though she was in King’s Landing as well, but Margaery knew better than to underestimate her. She supposed Ser Kevan had probably retreated to the Rock, as she’d received no notice of his death. The most important thing was that they had the Kingslayer.  _ But what is he worth to them? If Stannis is right, then Jaime and Cersei enjoy a  _ _ very _ _ close bond and she will do anything to get him back. And yet, if Robb is planning on exchanging one Lannister for three Starks he may be disappointed. I have to talk to him about - _

“Are you alright, my Queen?” Marianne asked as she put the finishing touches on her hair. 

“Of course,” she replied. “Would you inform my grandmother I’d like to take noon tea with her?”

“Of course, Your Grace,” and she swept out of the rooms. 

Margaery returned to her bedroom, as quietly as possible so that she might not disturb her husband, and began sorting through her closet. She’d always liked choosing her outfits and accessories, ever since she’d been old enough to. There was a certain power that came with clothes, and it was a power she wielded.  _ If you want to be a queen, dress like one, _ her grandmother had said.  _ And make sure you know who you’re dressing for. _ On this occasion it was the Northern lords, and for the dead Stark boys.  _ My brothers by law, who I’ll never meet. _ She swallowed, and pushed the thought from her mind.

She carefully picked out earrings, a necklace, and rings until she felt satisfied. She dressed quickly, looking in the mirror to make sure not a hair was out of place. Then she reached for her crown, and nestled it in amongst her brown curls.

“Margaery?” She spun around, her crown nearly flying off, to meet her half-asleep husband. She gave a smile, but she didn’t know which Robb to expect. She waited, with bated breath.

“Good morning,” she said with a smile, sitting on the bed. 

He stretched, yawning. “Where are you headed?”

“My grandmother. It’s nearly noon, but I thought I’d let you rest.”

“Nearly noon? Gods.” He blinked, but then focused on her. “You look very nice.”

“Thank you,” she said, ignoring the annoying little thrill that ran up her spine, “There’s breakfast in the other room, when you’re hungry.”

His eyes were soft. “Thank you.”

She got up to leave, but Robb grabbed her hand and looked at her with those sincere Tully blue eyes. “Truly, thank you. For last night.”

She smiled lightly, heart tightening, and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead. 

 

* * *

“Ah, there you are, my dear,” her grandmother greeted as she entered her rooms. 

“How are you, Grandmother?” She sat, letting a servant pour their tea for them. Margaery took the cup graciously.

“How is your husband?” She asked, though seemingly out of formality rather than sympathy.

“Well enough, considering.” 

“He made an impressive battle plan yesterday, considering. Many things can be said about this young King, but he can certainly do war.”  _ Let’s only hope he can rule _ , she felt was left unsaid. “However, since that Greyjoy boy took Winterfell, he is left without heirs.”

“His father and sisters still live,” Margaery said, knowing exactly where this conversation was headed. “If Robb falls, they would surely execute Lord Stark which would make Sansa the key to the North.”

“And if she isn’t married to Joffrey they’ll marry her to some other Lannister. This puts him in a difficult position. A king without an heir is too vulnerable. You must find out who he will name as heir, or produce one yourself, and quickly.”

“But who would he name in the interim?” She asked, blatantly skipping over the topic of having a child. “There is no one else with Stark blood except . . .”

Her grandmother’s eyes narrowed. “Who?”

Margaery blinked. “The bastard brother in the Night’s Watch.”

This did not please her grandmother. “He needs an heir. A  _ trueborn _ heir.”

Margaery nodded, but she could hardly imagine sleeping with him in this state. Or, well, she could, but it might be distasteful.

“It’s good of you, staying by his side. I doubt he’ll forget that.”

“I am his wife,” she said, deflecting. “I am only doing my duty.”

Her grandmother smiled at that. “I’ve taught you well.” She didn’t give praise lightly. “Has Robb made any indication of when he is departing for Casterly Rock?”

Margaery shook her head. “A fortnight at the earliest, but I’d guess a month.”

“The sooner the better. Kevan will defend the Rock to his last breath, you can be sure of that. By delaying, you give both Casterly Rock and Lannisport more time to prepare. And still, taking Lannisport will be like swatting a fly compared to taking Casterly Rock.”

“A siege on the Rock could last months, if not years,” Margaery agreed. A thought struck her. “You don’t think Joffrey would harm the Stark hostages, do you?”

Her grandmother knit her brows together. “He will not kill them,” she said, but that provided little reassurance. “Not as long as Robb holds the Kingslayer.”

“Yet I fear that if one of his sisters or his father dies, Robb will lose his motivation.”

Her grandmother made a negative sound. “That will not do. We need the Northerners as much as they need us. If the other kingdoms are in chaos, we will only be stronger.”  _ And Northerners won’t concern themselves with what the Reach does after this war. It will be the perfect time to arrange marriages, especially if Robb decides to remain in the south. _

Margaery decided to change the subject. “There’s still Stannis to worry about.”

“Yes, but there’s no need worrying about Stannis quite yet. Not until after he attacks King’s Landing.”

She wanted to ask if she thought Stannis would win, but that felt like a child’s question. She’d already asked it before, but it had not been the answer she wanted. 

“I should return to my husband, and my ladies are sure to want to meet as well. Thank you for tea, Grandmother.” Margaery said hastily and stood, beginning to feel stifled in the study. 

“Make sure you bring up the heir issue, and quickly. As for your ladies, your  _ true _ ladies, I will have them meet us in Lannisport when it is safe.”

Margaery missed Megga and Alla and Elinor, much more than she would admit. She needed confidantes, friends. The people closest to her were her grandmother and Loras, but, especially in her grandmother’s case, their company was often taxing. Marianne was a good companion, but she could not trust that glint of ambition in her eyes. There was a woman who wanted power, and Margaery could more than sympathize. But, she knew exactly what she would do if she was in her position, and it was why she couldn’t completely trust her. 

“I would also advise getting closer with these Northern lords, my dear; make sure they know you, respect you.” That Margaery did not need to be told. Lady Catelyn had been an excellent tutor, and she knew exactly which lords she expressly wanted on her side, as well as those she wanted to keep close. One very specific name came to mind.

 

* * *

Margaery returned to her chambers to see her husband half-dressed, poring over raven scrolls at his desk.  _ Thank the gods. _ “Anything interesting?” she asked, walking up to him and resting a hand on his shoulder. 

“Not really. Most of it’s rather boring.”

“Perhaps I can make it less boring,” she said playfully. 

Robb raised an eyebrow at her, and looked as though he was going to simply brush her off, but then he nodded.

He picked up one scroll, reading, “‘ _ Bear Island has had an excellent year for fishing and has much excess. Lady Alysane Mormont would send some to the Northern army, if needed. _ ’ I don’t want her to lose a ship to the Ironborn while trying to get here, and it’d be rotted if it went overland.” He turned to Margaery. “I told you it wasn’t very exciting.”

Day-to-day business didn’t interest Margaery so much, truth be told. She wanted news of the realm. “Perhaps have her send it to the Wall,” she suggested, trying to sound invested.

Robb thought for a moment. “Aye, that would be good. Jon would appreciate it, I’m sure.”

“Jon Snow? He is Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, is he not?”  _ Then Robb cannot name him heir. _

“Aye, he is,” Robb smiled softly to himself. “I knew he would make Lord Commander, but I never expected he would have it so soon.” His voice was wistful; it was obvious they had been close. “I’ll have the maester write the reply to Lady Alysane,” he said, setting the scroll to the side with a small note attached to it, and moved on. 

He picked up another scroll, skimming it, and once he’d done he sighed and let it fall back on the desk. 

“What happened?” Margaery asked, though she was already reaching for the scroll. 

_ Stannis sailed into Blackwater Bay three days ago. The Lannisters killed many with wildfire, but Stannis and his army made it over the walls. Once crossed, Stannis was felled by three arrows. His troops saw, lost heart, and fled. Stormlords scattered. Decisive victory for Lannisters. _

“This is good news, isn’t it?” She asked, but she didn’t know which answer she wanted. 

“I don’t know,” he replied. “If Stannis had taken the city I have no idea what he’d do to my father or sisters, or how he’d respond to an independent North . . . but I suppose it’s a moot point since he didn’t.”

“But now there’s an absence of power in the Stormlands,” Margaery began, her mind whirring.  _ If we brought in the Stormlands three of the seven kingdoms would be with us, and the Riverlands. _

“No, no, Stannis has a daughter. Shireen. She’s the rightful heir.”

“Shireen is but a girl, and she’s disfigured. The Stormlords won’t follow her.”

“Shireen is fourteen, she’s older than Sansa,” he protested. “She  _ is _ the rightful heir to the Iron Throne.”

“She can’t  _ inspire _ them. When I was wed to Renly I came to know many of the Stormlords. They will not want to fight for Shireen nor Joffrey. Shireen is but a girl and Joffrey is not a Baratheon; you are the only person left. You can offer them a cause they can believe in.”

He stared at her incredulously. “I’m not going to steal her inheritance out from under her, Margaery.”

_ Damn these honorable Starks. _ She backtracked. “You can offer them revenge, then, for their fallen lord. If you lend Shireen your support the Stormlords will support her, and we’ll have another kingdom with us when we march to King’s Landing.”

“That’s supposing Shireen or the Stormlords want to ally themselves.” Robb pointed out.

“And why wouldn’t they?”

“Stannis saw me as his enemy as much as Joffrey; his daughter might not be any different.”

“Surely there’s no harm in writing the girl?” She said. “If it is as you say, and she is the rightful heir, then . . .” she raised an eyebrow pointedly. “And I have connections with the Stormlords. Perhaps, if they are worried about Shireen’s capability to lead I could reassure them.” She had been their Queen once, for however short a time.

Robb looked at her funnily, but with the strangest bit of pride. “Aye, then. I’ll write Shireen.” He pulled a fresh sheet of parchment and Margaery turned to stand. “Where are you going?”

“It’s near time that I should go meet with my ladies,” she said. “Queens do have schedules to keep, you know,” she said, a bit playfully.

“Of course, my lady,” he said cheekily. “But I’ll have you read this letter before I send it.”

“Gladly,” she said, kissed the top of his head, grabbed her shawl, and headed for the door. A thought struck her then, stopping her in her tracks, and she turned back to him.

“Robb,” she said in frozen disbelief. He turned to her, his eyes wide with concern. It only made her thought all the worse. “You’re now the oldest king in this war.”

And if it were possible, the weight of the world seemed to grow even heavier.

 

* * *

“It’s so strange having all the men back in Riverrun, don’t you think?” Alysanne Bracken asked as she braided Bethany Blackwood’s hair.

“Riverrun is so  _ full _ now,” said Carellen Smallwood with her light soprano voice. 

“Full of young, handsome knights,” grinned Elissa Deddings. Eleanor Mooton shared a laugh with her.

“Aren’t you too young to be thinking of men, Elissa?” asked Marianne from beside Margaery.

“I’m thirteen! I’ll be able to get married soon.”

“I’m seventeen and I’m still not wed,” said Marianne pointedly.

“I’d like to marry a man from the Reach,” said Bethany Keath, with all the certainty her twelve-year-old self could muster.

“Yes, Queen Margaery, Reachmen are so much handsomer than Riverlands men,” Eleanor Mooton said dreamily, as only a thirteen-year-old girl could. Margaery smiled at the young girl.

“If a woman from the Reach can marry a Northman, you can most certainly marry a Reachman.” Margaery said. She was already planning half of the girls’ marriages to men of the Reach.

“I’d rather be a knight instead of marry one,” said Bess Bracken, holding her sewing needle like a sword. “Then I wouldn’t have to hide here at Riverrun.”

“Don’t be silly, Bess,” said Alysanne. “Wouldn’t you rather be with the Queen than at home?”

Margaery smiled. “Well, I couldn’t imagine being here without all of you,” she said, and calmly ended the squabbling. Her ladies were good girls, but so many were still so young. They provided a good distraction, though, most of the time. And she needed distraction. 

She didn’t want to admit it to anyone, barely even herself, but he had scared her yesterday. She had built him up in her head this past month as a protector; someone to keep her safe while she played this game of politics she loved so much. She had barely realized what a toll all of this would take on him, too, though she’d seen it clear as day the first time they met. She’d seen the weight of the war on his shoulders, and she had forgotten it in favor of the picture of him in the courtyard, looking like a knight from the songs. Her fear of losing him had made her forget who he was, what he was. What they both were. She thought she would forever be stuck between it all; wife and widow, girl and queen, each one pulling her in a different direction until she would split right down the middle. Sometimes she barely knew what was keeping her together, and she knew the worst had not yet begun.

She paused in her stitching as she thought about him swinging his sword at that tree, hitting it so hard she thought the sword would snap in half. She had never seen such fury, such desperation, such utter helplessness, and it had scared her. It had scared her more than anything she’d ever witnessed, and her whole body was crying at her to run away, but she could not leave him. He had to keep going, they  _ both _ had to keep going, or all of this would be lost. 

She had met with her ladies to keep from thinking about him, and yet here she was. He’d gone to meet with his council about the Stannis situation, and though she had wanted to be there she didn’t know if she could’ve been around him for much longer. And yet, all she wanted to do was be with him; to finally be able to rejoice in the fact that he was safe, not be drowning in all of this death and chaos. 

She let her mind wander a moment, returning to the familiar black-and-white facts that Stannis was dead, the Stormlands were now in disarray, and what she could do about it. She knew politics, she knew how one action could upset everything, how she could make the pieces fall in line; it had always made sense to her. And now, faced with her husband’s mental state, this entire war and all of the pieces of the game felt like child’s play.

Margaery held in a sigh. She needed to clear her head. She would give anything to ride out beyond the walls, into the lush greenery the Riverlands had to offer, but it was far too crowded now. She’d be too visible, and that was the opposite of what she wanted to be right now. She set down her sewing and turned to her ladies, her face plastered with a smile. “I’m feeling rather stuffed up inside, dear ladies. Who cares for a walk in the garden?”

 

* * *

After her walk, Margaery once again returned to her grandmother. They spoke briefly about the new situation in the Stormlands, about Robb backing Shireen as the true heir - which they had mutual feelings about - and lastly, the issue of the heir. 

“You must do your duty, Margaery,” she pressed. “I will prepare a tea for you. We  _ cannot _ have a repetition of what happened with Renly.”

She straightened her shoulders, ignoring the tightening in her gut. “Of course, Grandmother,” she said, and quickly made her exit.

“The King is with his mother, Your Grace,” a servant informed her when she returned to her chambers, near dusk. She’d half-expected him to be here, but she supposed his mother needed him. 

“I would like to dine with my brothers, then,” she said, and the servant left. She went to her vanity, heaving a sigh, and easily removed her earrings and crown, choosing to wrap a gray shawl around her shoulders. The cold still pricked at her, even here. 

Loras came in first, as he was never far from her, closely followed by Garlan. She’d missed her brothers. It’d been too long since they’d been able to sit and talk and laugh like siblings. They were a good distraction, and she needed one.

They sat and talked and drank, simply enjoying each other’s company. They were in the midst of remembering how Loras had been thrown from his horse the first time he mounted one by himself, which had her and Garlan in stitches and Loras beet red. That was how Robb found them.

“Oh, thank the gods,” Loras said as he entered. “You can’t make fun of me in front of the King.”

Robb looked puzzled, but a small smile soon came to him.

“No, Loras, now we have  _ another _ person to help us make fun of you,” Garlan laughed, and bowed his head to his sovereign. “Your Grace.”

“Please, no need for formalities. Forgive me for walking in on your dinner.”

_ Has something happened? _ She couldn’t help but think. He looked . . . unsettled. “Please, join us,” she said, wondering what his mood was.

“Thank you, but I’ve already eaten with my mother.” He nodded politely, and went to leave the room.

“Of course,” she assented, giving a quick nod with her head.  _ Something is troubling him. Surely not Lady Catelyn? Or perhaps . . .  _

“I think it might be best if I go and attend to my husband,” Margaery said after Robb disappeared through their bedroom door.

Garlan gave a concurring look and stood, Loras next to him. They said their goodbyes quickly and left, leaving only her and Robb. She wrapped her shawl tighter around her and walked into the bedroom, where he was changing into his nightclothes. She watched him for a moment from the doorway, wondering if she should speak first or wait for him. But he was not forthcoming. And so she stepped forward, on eggshells.

“How is your mother?” She asked.  _ I suppose there’s no better time to strike. _

Robb did not look at her. “Well.”

_ Hmm, something happened. _ “And your meeting with the council?”

This question earned her a huff. “Lords are lords,” he said scathingly, but his tone lightened. “They’re troublesome and worry like hens, but it went well enough.”

_ So the lords aren’t the problem, _ she deduced.  _ But what happened with Lady Catelyn? _ She smiled. “They certainly are troublesome.”

“Indeed they are. But it’s been a long day, and my mother always says a good night’s sleep is the best cure for any ailment.”

Robb turned to her and smiled, small enough she almost thought she imagined it.  _ I’ll have to save serious conversations for tomorrow, then _ . She walked to him, smiling as a wife should, and began undoing the buttons on his doublet.

“You know, it has occurred to me that we never got a honeymoon,” she said, letting her fingers brush against his skin. 

Robb looked down at her, his brows drawing together and the barest of grins crossing his mouth.  _ Ah, there’s interest there _ .

“Perhaps we might take a day, or at least a  _ long _ morning, to be just husband and wife?” She wondered if it might be too soon, if he would rebuke her, but she guessed he needed a distraction just as much as she did. Luckily, his eyes sparked with interest.

“I suppose I haven’t been a very adoring husband,” he said, his tone light but his faces till serious. “And perhaps a long morning . . .”

“Of course,” she said, her eyes glinting as she unbuttoned the last little button. “Just a morning.”

Robb’s hands were firm on her waist; she felt his fingers tighten just a little when that last button popped free. He drew a long breath, guiding her closer to him. She felt his stubble graze her cheek, and their breathing stopped. He hesitated for only a moment before brushing his lips against hers.  _ Come now, I know you’re not that shy. _ But he needed to lead this, not her.

His breath was hot as he pulled away, and then his eyes slid up to meet hers.  _ He needs a distraction too. _ So she gave him one.

He kissed her again, harder, giving her time to lean in and savor the taste of him. His hands were pressed to the small of her back, keeping her pressed tight against his chest. She let her shawl fall away as he led her to the bed, kissing and biting and sucking just in the way she needed him to. 

It wasn’t going to be slow and easy this time, no, both of them wanted,  _ needed _ something quick and hot and ugly. She wrapped her fingers in his curls and pulled as he continued to make his way down her neck, sucking on that sweet spot on her collarbone. She fumbled at his breeches, impatient and lost in the sensation of his touch, guiding him into her. She let out a loud moan as she took all of him. Robb, shy only heartbeats ago, now let everything go as he pushed himself in her with a heavy gasp. She wrapped her arms around his neck, holding on for her life as he battered his way in her. It was hot and fast and messy and perfect. Every frustration, every moment of anger, every pent-up ounce of emotion came barreling out as he thrust inside her, and yet it still wasn’t enough. She wrapped her legs around his middle, forcing him closer, forcing him harder, getting herself as close to him as she could. She needed this, she needed him, she needed a distraction, to forget, to just be fucked like there was no tomorrow. Heat stirred in her belly, searing through and she climaxed with a cry. He came with a shuddering sigh and fell beside her.

The only sound in the room was their breathing, fast and harsh. This hadn’t been like last time, when neither of them knew what to do around each other. This time neither cared about propriety; this was brutal. And it sure as hell felt like that. Margaery rubbed her thighs together, delighting in the soreness and lamenting her poor gown for half a moment before stretching her hand out to find his. 

“Perhaps it’s a bit late for this,” she began, wrapping her fingers around his, “but we should probably change.”

Robb barked out a laugh. “A bit late, aye.” He shook his head, laughing a bit. “Here, my lady, I’ll undo your dress for you.”

Margaery wanted to enjoy the bliss of that sweet post-orgasm feeling, but she sat up with a small groan. He let his hands trace her back and all the little strings that held her clothes together, picking at them one by one. It took him a while; his fingers were trembling. She shimmied out of it and tossed it to the floor, along with his doublet. 

“You’re a very messy roommate, did you know?” Robb teased as he began undoing the laces on her corset.

She giggled like a girl, feeling light, like all her woes had simply melted away. “What, do you expect me to get up and fold clothes? After  _ that _ ?”

Robb laughed lightly. “Maybe not,” he said, and pulled the last string free on her corset. That, too, she tossed to the floor and fell back on the bed with a soft  _ thud _ . Robb was sitting cross-legged, looking so delightfully handsome with his messy auburn curls.  _ He is a king everywhere but in my bed _ , she thought, smiling blissfully.  _ Only I make him look like this. _

Robb cocked his head, and she wondered what he was thinking. She’d noticed that about him; he was careful with his words, which she supposed was a good thing. She was also impatient, though, and if he didn’t quit studying her and say something she was going to - 

“Who was your first?” 

Her eyes narrowed at the question, and a small shiver of fear went up her spine. He didn’t seem malicious, only curious. She pressed her tongue between her teeth before answering, “Son of one of my father’s bannermen, when I was thirteen.” His eyebrows raised in shock. “You?”

He faltered for a moment before answering. “A Wintertown whore, the night before I turned fifteen.” The answer didn’t surprise her. “Gods, Margaery, were you really thirteen?”

“Closer to fourteen.” In truth her first had been with a daughter of one of the gardeners, but she wasn’t going to tell him that. “Don’t worry,” she said with a smirk, “you’re better.”

Robb seemed caught off-guard for a moment before rolling his eyes. “I wasn’t worried about  _ that _ . And besides, I only slept with that woman because Theon coerced me into it.” He fumbled over Theon’s name, but Margaery didn’t make any indication that she’d noticed. “He tried to persuade Jon too, since his nameday is not too long after mine, but there was no way he would’ve.”

Her eyebrows furrowed. “Oh? What, does he not like girls?” She said it humorously, but he still looked a bit shocked at the question. 

“No, it’s not that,” Robb said, still looking shocked. “He’s a bastard, see, and he doesn’t want to father another.”

That was almost . . . noble, Margaery thought. Bastards weren’t very well respected or cared for in the Reach. They were something to be hidden away, never to take public responsibility for.

“And you never had that worry?” She asked, though she was certain he would’ve told her if he had a bastard. Honorable Starks and all. 

Something clouded his face for a moment which made her pause - but it soon vanished. “I was young and had never lain with a girl, so,” he shrugged. “I know for a fact Jon would kill me if I ever had a bastard . . . but I would make sure it was loved. Jon . . . my mother hated him, still hates him . . .” he trailed off, lost in thought.

She reached out and took her hand in his. “What’s on your mind?”

He shook his head, curls hanging limp. Moments ago he’d been full and light, and now she saw the weight of the world return to his shoulders. The distraction was over. 

He remained still for a long moment. His exhaustion and indecision lined his face, and she almost regretted asking if it was causing him this much distress. A heartbeat before she was going to break the silence, change the subject, he spoke. 

“My mother,” he sighed heavily, and she wondered what on earth Lady Catelyn could’ve done. 

“Oh?” She feigned concern to mask her interest. “Is she alright?”

Robb shook his head again, as if trying to dismiss it. “She’d rather we turn south than west.”

_ Ah, so that’s it. South is where her husband and daughters are. _ She pondered it a moment longer.  _ That must be why he came back in such a mood; she must’ve guilted him. _ She could only imagine the types of things an angry, grief-stricken Catelyn could say.

“It is as you said, we cannot leave them free to attack us from the rear,” she supported.  _ And the Reach lords need to spend more time under his command. _ “It is a good plan,” she said, freely giving the validation he needed. 

“And yet, once I have Lannisport and Casterly Rock they’ll have reason to execute my father.”

Margaery was quick to shake her head, refusing to let him stray down that path. “But if they kill him, then you will kill the Kingslayer. If Cersei wants her brother to live your father will too.”

“It is Joffrey who rules, not Cersei.”

She’d heard stories about the boy king, most too unpleasant to bear repeating, but he would not kill Lord Stark, lest his mother strengthen her grip as Regent. “Joffrey is not yet of age. Amazingly, it may be a good thing that Cersei rules instead. And once you take Lannisport and the Rock you’ll have more Lannister hostages - more than enough to barter for your father and sister’s release.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that they’re still prisoners,” he said bitterly.

“Only for a while longer,” she reasoned, gripping his hand. Her heart ached at the sight of him, of this young king with the weight of his family’s survival on his shoulders, hot grief simmering in him just below the surface. It was her duty to keep him sound and focused. “We will win, I promise you. Just a while longer.”

He did not meet her gaze. “Aye,” he said, “but at what cost to them?”

His words struck her, rendering her speechless. He was sliding down into the dark again, into a part of his mind that wasn’t going to help or change anything.

“Robb, Robb, look at me.” He raised his eyes slowly, revealing the hot grief inside. “One step at a time, okay?”  _ Damn Lady Catelyn. She cannot guilt him like this. He  _ _ is _ _ this war. If he’s lost, we’re all lost. _ Not to mention she was making her job harder.  _ Or maybe you just don’t want him to be sad. _ She pushed the thought from her mind, however true it might be, and kept her focus on him.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, aimlessly. 

Margaery was quick to shake her head, leaning in so that their foreheads touched. “No. I know what I married.” And she wasn’t afraid of it.

Robb looked at her strangely. “ _ What _ you married?”

“Yes,” she said simply. “I married a war.” Before he could rebuke that she put her hands on his cheeks, rubbing the stubble gently with her thumb, pulling him closer so that their noses were brushing together. “But I also married you.”

His face softened. Despite that cold Northern exterior and that gruff half-grown beard, her husband was a romantic at heart. It still startled her just how quickly he’d latched onto her (and her to him) and been so willing to share. Margaery was good enough at emotional support, she’d done it for years with her ladies, but here her heart was in it; for him. It scared her, but it was no great burden. 

They stayed, wrapped around each other, only needing the comfort of the other’s warmth.  _ I could stay like this forever _ , she thought.  _ As though we were the only two people in the world. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for taking literally two and a half months to update again! this chapter is still messy but i didn't want to sit on it anymore lmao i hope you enjoyed this chapter, and hopefully there'll be another update soon! i really appreciate all of y'all sticking through my chaotic update schedule <3


End file.
